(.RAY    ROSES 

BY 
HENRY   HARLAND 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


RAY     ROSES 


BY    HENRY    HARLAND 


N      ROBERTS  BROS.  1895 
HN  LANE.  VIGOST 


GRAY     ROSES 


BY    HENRY    HARLAND 


BOSTON:    ROBERTS. BROS,  1895 
LONDON  :  JOHN  LANE,  VIGO  ST 


Copyright,  1895, 
.BY .ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Hntbersttg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL 9 

MERCEDES 49 

A  BROKEN  LOOKING-GLASS 61 

THE  REWARD  OF  VIRTUE 71 

A  RE-INCARNATION 87 

FLOWER  o'  THE  QUINCE 109 

WHEN  I  AM  KING 121 

A  RESPONSIBILITY I41 

CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN 159 


943295 


j,  the  conception  was  a  rose,  but  the  achievement  is  a  rose 
grown  gray."  —  PARASCHKINE. 


THE   BOHEMIAN   GIRL. 


THE  BOHEMIAN   GIRL. 


I  WOKE  up  very  gradually  this  morning,  and  it  took 
me  a  little  while  to  bethink  myself  where  I  had  slept, 
—  that  it  had  not  been  in  my  own  room  in  the 
Cromwell  Road.  I  lay  a-bed,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
drowsily  looking  forward  to  the  usual  procession  of 
sober-hued  London  hours,  and,  for  the  moment,  quite 
forgot  the  journey  of  yesterday,  and  how  it  had  left 
me  in  Paris,  a  guest  in  the  smart  new  house  of  my 
old  friend,  Nina  Childe.  Indeed,  it  was  not  until 
somebody  tapped  on  my  door,  and  I  roused  myself  to 
call  out  "  Come  in,"  that  I  noticed  the  strangeness  of 
the  wall-paper,  and  then,  after  an  instant  of  perplex- 
ity, suddenly  remembered.  Oh,  with  a  wonderful 
lightening  of  the  spirit,  I  can  tell  you. 

A  white-capped,  brisk  young  woman,  with  a  fresh- 
colored,  wholesome  peasant  face,  came  in,  bearing  a 
tray,  —  Jeanne,  Nina's  f emme-de-chambre. 

"  Bonjour,  monsieur,"  she  cried  cheerily.  "  I  bring 
monsieur  his  coffee."  And  her  announcement  was 
followed  by  a  fragrance,  —  the  softly-sung  response  of 
the  coffee-sprite.  Her  tray,  with  its  pretty  freight  of 
silver  and  linen,  primrose  butter,  and  gently  browned 
pain-de-gruau,  she  set  down  on  the  table  at  my  elbow ; 


10        !  -, 'c  \:  L .. •  :  GRA Y  ROSES. 

then  she  crossed  the  room  and  drew  back  the  window- 
curtains,  making  the  rings  tinkle  crisply  on  the  metal 
rods,  and  letting  in  a  gush  of  dazzling  sunshine. 
From  where  I  lay  I  could  see  the  house-fronts  oppo- 
site glow  pearly  gray  in  shadow,  and  the  crest  of  the 
slate  roofs  sharply  print  itself  on  the  sky,  like  a  black 
line  on  a  sheet  of  scintillant  blue  velvet.  Yet,  a  few 
minutes  ago,  I  had  been  fancying  myself  in  the  Crom- 
well Eoad. 

Jeanne,  gathering  up  my  scattered  garments,  to 
take  them  off  and  brush  them,  inquired,  by  the  way, 
if  monsieur  had  passed  a  comfortable  night. 

"As  the  chambermaid  makes  your  bed,  so  must 
you  lie  in  it,"  I  answered.  "  And  you  know  whether 
my  bed  was  smoothly  made." 

Jeanne  smiled  indulgently.  But  her  next  remark 
—  did  it  imply  that  she  found  me  rusty  ?  "  Here 's  a 
long  time  that  you  have  n't  been  in  Paris." 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted ;  "  not  since  May,  and  now 
we  're  in  November." 

"  We  have  changed  things  a  little,  have  we  not  ?  " 
she  demanded,  with  a  gesture  that  left  the  room,  and 
included  the  house,  the  street,  the  quarter. 

"  In  effect,"  assented  I. 

"Monsieur  desires  his  hot  water?"  she  asked, 
abruptly  irrelevant. 

But  I  could  be,  or  at  least  seem,  abruptly  irrele- 
vant too.  "  Mademoiselle  —  is  she  up  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes,  monsieur.  Mademoiselle  has  been  up 
since  eight.  She  awaits  you  in  the  salon.  La  voila 
qui  joue,"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  floor. 

Nina  had  begun  to  play  scales  in  the  room  below. 

"  Then  you  may  bring  me  my  hot  water,"  I  said. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  11 


II 

The  scales  continued  while  I  was  dressing,  and 
many  desultory  reminiscences  of  the  player,  and 
vague  reflections  upon  the  unlikelihood  of  her  adven- 
tures, went  flitting  through  my  mind  to  their  rhythm. 
Here  she  was,  scarcely  turned  thirty,  beautiful,  bril- 
liant, rich  in  her  own  right,  as  free  in  all  respects  to 
follow  her  own  will  as  any  man  could  be,  with  Camille 
happily  at  her  side,  a  well-grown,  rosy,  merry  miss  of 
twelve,  —  here  was  Nina,  thus,  to-day ;  and  yet,  a 
mere  little  ten  years  ago,  I  remembered  her  .  .  .  ah, 
in  a  very  different  plight  indeed.  True,  she  has  got 
no  more  than  her  deserts ;  she  has  paid  for  her  suc- 
cess, every  pennyweight  of  it,  in  hard  work  and  self- 
denial.  But  one  is  so  expectant,  here  below,  to  see 
Fortune  capricious,  that,  when  for  once  in  a  way  she 
bestows  her  favors  where  they  are  merited,  one  can't 
help  feeling  rather  dazed.  One  is  so  inured  to  seeing 
honest  Effort  turn  empty-handed  from  her  door. 

Ten  little  years  ago  —  but  no.  I  must  begin 
further  back.  I  must  tell  you  something  about 
Nina's  father. 


Ill 

He  was  an  Englishman  who  lived  for  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  in  Paris.  I  would  say  he  was  a  painter, 
if  he  had  not  been  equally  a  sculptor,  a  musician,  an 
architect,  a  writer  of  verse,  and  a  university  coach. 
A  doer  of  so  many  things  is  inevitably  suspect ;  you 
will  imagine  that  he  must  have  bungled  them  all. 


12  GRAY  ROSES. 

On  the  contrary,  whatever  he  did,  he  did  with  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  accomplishment.  The  landscapes 
he  painted  were  very  fresh  and  pleasing,  delicately 
colored,  with  lots  of  air  in  them,  and  a  dreamy,  sug- 
gestive sentiment.  His  brother  sculptors  declared 
that  his  statuettes  were  modelled  with  exceeding  dash 
and  directness;  they  were  certainly  fanciful  and 
amusing.  I  remember  one  that  I  used  to  like  im- 
mensely,—  Titania  driving  to  a  tryst  with  Bottom, 
her  chariot  a  lily,  daisies  for  wheels,  and  for  steeds 
a  pair  of  mettlesome  field-mice.  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
got  a  commission  for  a  complete  house  ;  but  the  stair- 
cases he  designed,  the  fire-places,  and  other  bits  of 
buildings,  everybody  thought  original  and  graceful. 
The  tunes  he  wrote  were  lively  and  catching,  the 
words  never  stupid,  sometimes  even  strikingly  happy, 
epigrammatic ;  and  he  sang  them  delightfully,  in  a 
robust,  hearty  baritone.  He  coached  the  youth  of 
France,  for  their  examinations,  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
in  history,  mathematics,  general  literature,  —  in  good- 
ness knows  what  not ;  and  his  pupils  failed  so  rarely 
that,  when  one  did,  the  circumstance  became  a  nine 
days'  wonder.  The  world  beyond  the  Students' 
Quarter  had  never  heard  of  him,  but  there  he  was  a 
celebrity  and  a  favorite ;  and,  strangely  enough  for  a 
man  with  so  many  strings  to  his  bow,  he  contrived  to 
pick  up  a  sufficient  living. 

He  was  a  splendid  creature  to  look  at,  tall,  stalwart, 
full-blooded,  with  a  ruddy  open-air  complexion;  a 
fine  bold  brow  and  nose ;  brown  e3res,  humorous, 
intelligent,  kindly,  that  always  brightened  flatteringly 
when  they  met  you;  and  a  vast  quantity  of  bluish- 
gray  hair  and  beard.  In  his  dress  he  affected  (very 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  13 

wisely,  for  they  became  him  excellently)  velvet 
jackets,  flannel  shirts,  loosely  knotted  ties,  and  wide- 
brimmed  soft-felt  hats.  Marching  down  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Michel,  his  broad  shoulders  well  thrown 
back,  his  head  erect,  chin  high  in  air,  his  whole 
person  radiating  health,  power,  contentment,  and  the 
pride  of  them,  he  was  a  sight  worth  seeing,  spirited, 
picturesque,  prepossessing.  You  could  not  have  passed 
him  without  noticing  him  ;  without  wondering  who 
he  was,  confident  he  was  somebody ;  without  admir- 
ing him,  and  feeling  that  there  went  a  man  it  would 
be  interesting  to  know. 

He  was,  indeed,  charming  to  know;  he  was  the 
hero,  the  idol,  of  a  little  sect  of  worshippers,  young 
fellows  who  loved  nothing  better  than  to  sit  at  his 
feet.  On  the  Rive  Gauche,  to  be  sure,  we  are,  for 
the  most  part,  birds  of  passage ;  a  student  arrives, 
tarries  a  little,  then  departs.  So,  with  the  exits  and 
entrances  of  seniors  and  nouveaux,  the  personnel  of 
old  Childe's  following  varied  from  season  to  season ; 
but  numerically  it  remained  pretty  much  the  same. 
He  had  a  studio,  with  a  few  living-rooms  attached, 
somewhere  up  in  the  fastnesses  of  Montparnasse, 
though  it  was  seldom  thither  that  one  went  to  seek 
him.  He  received  at  his  cafe,  the  Cafe  Bleu,  —  the 
Cafe  Bleu,  which  has  since  blown  into  the  monster  cafe 
of  the  Quarter,  the  noisiest,  the  rowdiest,  the  most  flam- 
boyant. But  I  am  writing  (alas  !)  of  twelve,  thirteen, 
fifteen  years  ago ;  in  those  days  the  Cafe  Bleu  con- 
sisted of  a  single  oblong  room,  —  with  a  sanded  floor, 
a  dozen  tables,  and  two  waiters,  Eugene  and  Hippolyte, 
—  where  Madame  Chanve,  the  patronne,  in  lofty  in- 
sulation behind  her  counter,  reigned,  if  you  please, 


14  GRAY  ROSES. 

but  where  Childe,  her  principal  client,  governed.  The 
bottom  of  the  shop,  at  any  rate,  was  reserved  exclu- 
sively to  his  use.  There  he  dined,  wrote  his  letters, 
dispensed  his  hospitalities ;  he  had  his  own  piano 
there,  if  you  can  believe  me,  his  foils  and  boxing- 
gloves  ;  from  the  absinthe  hour  till  bed-time  there 
was  his  habitat,  his  den.  And  woe  to  the  passing 
stranger  who,  mistaking  the  Cafe  Bleu  for  an  ordinary 
house  of  call,  ventured,  during  that  consecrated  period, 
to  drop  in.  Nothing  would  be  said,  nothing  done; 
we  wrould  not  even  trouble  to  stare  at  the  intruder. 
Yet  he  would  seldom  stop  to  finish  his  consommation, 
or  he  would  bolt  it.  He  would  feel  something  in  the 
air ;  he  would  know  he  was  out  of  place.  He  would 
fidget  a  little,  frown  a  little,  and  get  up  meekly,  and 
slink  into  the  street.  Human  magnetism  is  such  a 
subtle  force.  And  Madame  Chanve  did  n't  mind  in 
the  least ;  she  preferred  a  bird  in  the  hand  to  a  brace 
in  the  bush.  From  half  a  dozen  to  a  score  of  us  dined 
at  her  long  table  every  evening;  as  many  more  drank 
her  appetizers  in  the  afternoon  and  came  again  at 
night  for  grog  or  coffee.  You  see,  it  was  a  sort  of 
club,  a  club  of  which  Childe  was  at  once  the  chairman 
and  the  object.  If  we  had  had  a  written  constitution, 
it  must  have  begun  :  "  The  purpose  of  this  association 
is  the  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  Alfred  Childe." 

Ah,  those  afternoons,  those  dinners,  those  ambro- 
sial nights !  If  the  weather  was  kind,  of  course  we 
would  begin  our  session  on  the  terrasse,  sipping  our 
vermouth,  puffing  our  cigarettes,  laughing  our  laughs, 
tossing  hither  and  thither  our  light  ball  of  gossip, 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  perpetual  ebb  and  flow  and 
murmur  of  people  in  the  Boulevard,  while  the  setting 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  15 

sun  turned  Paris  to  a  marvellous  water-color,  all  pale 
lucent  tints,  amber  and  alabaster  and  mother-of-pearl, 
with  amethystine  shadows.  Then,  one  by  one,  those 
of  us  who  were  dining  elsewhere  would  slip  away; 
and  at  a  sign  from  Hippolyte  the  others  would  move 
indoors,  and  take  their  places  down  either  side  of  the 
long  narrow  table,  Childe  at  the  head,  his  daughter 
Nina  next  him.  And  presently  with  what  a  clatter  of 
knives  and  forks,  clinking  of  glasses,  and  babble  of 
human  voices  the  Cafe  Bleu  would  echo.  Madame 
Chanve's  kitchen  was  not  a  thing  to  boast  of,  and  her 
price,  for  the  Latin  Quarter,  was  rather  high,  —  I  think 
we  paid  three  francs,  wine  included,  which  would  be 
for  most  of  us  distinctly  a  prix-de-luxe.  But  oh,  it 
was  such  fun ;  we  were  so  young ;  Childe  was  so 
delightful !  The  fun  was  best,  of  course,  when  we 
were  few,  and  could  all  sit  up  near  to  him,  and  none 
need  lose  a  word.  When  we  were  many  there  would 
be  something  like  a  scramble  for  good  seats. 

I  ask  myself  whether,  if  I  could  hear  him  again 
to-day,  I  should  think  his  talk  as  wondrous  as  I 
thought  it  then.  Then  I  could  thrill  at  the  verse  of 
Musset,  and  linger  lovingly  over  the  prose  of  Theo- 
phile ;  I  could  laugh  at  the  wit  of  Gustave  Droz,  and 
weep  at  the  pathos  ...  it  costs  me  a  pang  to  own 
it,  but  yes,  I  'm  afraid  ...  I  could  weep  at  the 
pathos  of  Henry  Murger ;  and  these  have  all  suffered 
such  a  sad  sea-change  since.  So  I  could  sit,  hour 
after  hour,  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  listening  to  the  talk 
of  Nina's  father.  It  flowed  from  him  like  wine  from 
a  full  measure,  easily,  smoothly,  abundantly.  He  had 
a  ripe,  genial  voice,  and  an  enunciation  that  made 
crystals  of  his  words ;  whilst  his  range  of  subjects 


16  GRAY  HOSES. 

was  as  wide  as  the  earth  and  the  sky.  He  would 
talk  to  you  of  God  and  man,  of  metaphysics,  ethics, 
the  last  new  play,  murder,  or  change  of  ministry;  of 
books,  of  pictures,  specifically,  or  of  the  general  prin- 
ciples of  literature  and  painting;  of  people,  of  sunsets, 
of  Italy,  of  the  high  seas,  of  the  Paris  streets  —  of 
what,  in  fine,  you  pleased.  Or  he  would  spin  you  yarns, 
sober,  farcical,  veridical,  or  invented.  And,  with  tran- 
sitions infinitely  rapid,  he  would  be  serious,  jocose  — 
solemn,  ribald  —  earnest,  flippant  —  logical,  whimsi- 
cal, turn  and  turn  about.  And  in  every  sentence,  in 
its  form  or  in  its  substance,  he  would  wrap  a  surprise 
for  you,  —  it  was  the  unexpected  word,  the  unexpected 
assertion,  sentiment,  conclusion,  that  constantly  ar- 
rived. Meanwhile  it  would  enhance  your  enjoyment 
mightily  to  watch  his  physiognomy,  the  movements 
of  his  great  gray,  shaggy  head,  the  lightening  and 
darkening  of  his  eyes,  his  smile,  his  frown,  his  occa- 
sional slight  shrug  or  gesture.  But  the  oddest  thing 
was  this,  that  he  could  take  as  well  as  give  ;  he  could 
listen,  —  surely  a  rare  talent  in  a  monologist.  Indeed, 
I  have  never  known  a  man  who  could  make  you  feel 
so  interesting. 

After  dinner  he  would  light  an  immense  brown 
meerschaum  pipe,  and  smoke  for  a  quarter-hour  or  so 
in  silence  ;  then  he  would  play  a  game  or  two  of  chess 
with  some  one  ;  and  by  and  by  he  would  open  his 
piano,  and  sing  to  us  till  midnight. 


IV 

I  speak  of  him  as  old,  and  indeed  we  always  called 
him  Old  Childe  among  ourselves ;  yet  he  was  barely 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  17 

fifty.  Nina,  when  I  first  made  her  acquaintance,  must 
have  been  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  ;  though  — 
tall,  with  an  amply  rounded,  mature-seeming  figure  — 
if  one  had  judged  from  her  appearance,  one  would 
have  fancied  her  three  or  four  years  older.  For  that 
matter,  she  looked  then  very  much  as  she  looks  now ; 
I  can  perceive  scarcely  any  alteration.  She  had  the 
same  dark  hair,  gathered  up  in  a  big  smooth  knot 
behind,  and  breaking  into  a  tumult  of  little  ringlets 
over  her  forehead;  the  same  clear,  sensitive  com- 
plexion ;  the  same  rather  large,  full-lipped  mouth, 
tip-tilted  nose,  soft  chin,  and  merry  mischievous  eyes. 
She  moved  in  the  same  way,  with  the  same  leisurely, 
almost  lazy  grace,  that  could,  however,  on  occasions, 
quicken  to  an  alert,  elastic  vivacity ;  she  had  the  same 
voice,  a  trifle  deeper  than  most  women's,  and  of  a 
quality  never  so  delicately  nasal,  which  made  it  racy 
and  characteristic ;  the  same  fresh  ready  laughter. 
There  was  something  arch,  something  a  little  scepti- 
cal, a  little  quizzical  in  her  expression,  as  if,  perhaps, 
she  were  disposed  to  take  the  world,  more  or  less, 
with  a  grain  of  salt;  at  the  same  time  there  was 
something  rich,  warm-blooded,  luxurious,  suggesting 
that  she  would  know  how  to  savor  its  pleasantnesses 
with  complete  enjoyment.  But  if  you  felt  that  she 
was  by  way  of  being  the  least  bit  satirical  in  her  view 
of  things,  you  felt  too  that  she  was  altogether  good- 
natured,  and  even  that,  at  need,  she  could  show  her- 
self spontaneously  kind,  generous,  devoted.  And  if 
you  inferred  that  her  temperament  inclined  rather 
towards  the  sensuous  than  the  ascetic,  believe  me,  it 
did  not  lessen  her  attractiveness. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing  now,  the  senti- 

2 


18  GRAY  ROSES. 

ment  that  reigned  between  Nina  and  Old  Childe's 
retinue  of  young  men  was  chiefly  an  esprit-de-corps. 
Later  on,  we  all  fell  in  love  with  her  ;  but  for  the  present 
we  were  simply  amiably  fraternal.  We  were  united 
to  her  by  a  common  enthusiasm  ;  we  were  fellow- 
celebrants  at  her  ancestral  altar,  —  or,  rather,  she  was 
the  high  priestess  there,  we  were  her  acolytes.  For, 
with  her,  filial  piety  did  in  very  truth  partake  of  the 
nature  of  religion ;  she  really,  literally,  idolized  her 
father.  One  only  needed  to  watch  her  for  three 
minutes,  as  she  sat  beside  him,  to  understand  the 
depth  and  ardor  of  her  emotion*  how  she  adored 
him,  how  she  admired  him  and  believed  in  him,  how 
proud  of  him  she  was,  how  she  rejoiced  in  him. 
"Oh,  you  think  you  know  my  father,"  I  remember 
her  saying  to  us  once.  "Nobody  knows  him.  No- 
body is  great  enough  to  know  him.  If  people  knew 
him,  they  would  fall  down  and  kiss  the  ground  he 
walks  on."  It  is  certain  she  deemed  him  the  wisest, 
the  noblest,  the  handsomest,  the  most  gifted,  of 
human  kind.  That  little  gleam  of  mockery  in  her 
eye  died  out  instantly  when  she  looked  at  him,  when 
she  spoke  of  him  or  listened  to  him  ;  instead,  there 
came  a  tender  light  of  love,  and  her  face  grew  pale 
with  the  fervor  of  her  affection.  Yet,  when  he  jested, 
no  one  laughed  more  promptly  or  more  heartily  than 
she.  In  those  days  I  was  perpetually  trying  to  write 
fiction ;  and  Old  Childe  was  my  inveterate  hero.  I 
forget  in  how  many  ineffectual  manuscripts,  under 
what  various  dread  disguises,  he  was  afterwards  re- 
duced to  ashes ;  I  am  afraid,  in  one  case,  a  scandalous 
distortion  of  him  got  abroad  in  print.  Publishers  are 
sometimes  ill-advised ;  and  thus  the  indiscretions  of 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  19 

our  youth  may  become  the  confusions  of  our  age. 
The  thing  was  in  three  volumes,  and  called  itself  a 
novel ;  and  of  course  the  fatuous  author  had  to  make 
a  bad  business  worse  by  presenting  a  copy  to  his 
victim.  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  Nina  gave  me 
when  I  asked  her  if  she  had  read  it ;  I  grow  hot  even 
now  as  I  recall  it.  I  had  waited  and  waited  expecting 
her  compliments ;  and  at  last  I  could  wait  no  longer, 
and  so  asked  her ;  and  she  answered  me  with  a  look ! 
It  was  weeks,  I  am  not  sure  it  was  n't  months,  before 
she  took  me  back  to  her  good  graces.  But  Old  Childe 
was  magnanimous ;  he  sent  me  a  little  pencil-drawing 
of  his  head,  inscribed  in  the  corner,  "  To  Frankenstein, 
from  his  Monster." 


It  was  a  queer  life  for  a  girl  to  live,-  that  happy-go- 
lucky  life  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  lawless  and  unpremed- 
itated, with  a  cafe  for  her  school-room,  and  none  but 
men  for  comrades  ;  but  Nina  liked  it,  and  her  father 
had  a  theory  in  his  madness.  He  was  a  Bohemian, 
not  in  practice  only,  but  in  principle;  he  preached 
Bohemianism  as  the  most  rational  manner  of  exis- 
tence, maintaining  that  it  developed  what  .was  in- 
trinsic and  authentic  in  one's  character,  saved  one 
from  the  artificial,  and  brought  one  into  immediate 
contact  with  the  realities  of  the  world ;  and  he  pro- 
tested he  could  see  no  reason  why  a  human  being 
should  be  "  cloistered  and  contracted  "  because  of  her 
sex.  "What  would  not  hurt  my  son,  if  I  had  one, 
will  not  hurt  my  daughter.  It  will  make  a  man  of 


20  GRAY  ROSES. 

her —  without  making  her  the  less  a  woman."  So 
he  took  her  with  him  to  the  Cafe  Bleu,  and  talked  in 
her  presence  quite  as  freely  as  he  might  have  talked 
had  she  been  absent.  As,  in  the  greater  number  of 
his  theological,  political,  and  social  convictions,  he 
was  exceedingly  unorthodox,  she  heard  a  good  deal, 
no  doubt,  that  most  of  us  would  scarcely  consider 
edifying  for  our  daughters'  ears  j  but  he  had  his  sys- 
tem, he  knew  what  he  was  about.  "The  question 
whether  you  can  touch  pitch  and  remain  undefiled,"  he 
said,  "  depends  altogether  upon  the  spirit  in  which  you 
approach  it.  The  realities  of  the  world,  the  realities 
of  life,  the  real  things  of  God's  universe,  —  what  have 
we  eyes  for,  if  not  to  envisage  them  ?  Do  so  fear- 
lessly, honestly,  with  a  clean  heart,  and,  man  or 
woman,  you  can  only  be  the  better  for  it."  Perhaps 
his  system  was  a  shade  too  simple,  a  shade  too  obvi- 
ous, for  this  complicated  planet ;  but  he  held  to  it  in 
all  sincerity.  It  was  in  pursuance  of  the  same  sys- 
tem, I  dare  say,  that  he  taught  Nina  to  fence,  and  to 
read  Latin  and  Greek,  as  well  as  to  play  the  piano, 
and  turn  an  omelette.  She  could  ply  a  foil  against 
the  best  of  us. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  he  died. 

I  think  it  was  in  March  or  April ;  anyhow,  it  was  a 
premature  spring-like  day,  and  he  had  left  off  his 
overcoat.  That  evening  he  went  to  the  Odeon,  and 
when,  after  the  play,  he  joined  us  for  supper  at  the 
Bleu,  he  said  he  thought  he  had  caught  a  cold,  and 
ordered  hot  grog.  The  next  day  he  did  not  turn  up 
at  all ;  so  several  of  us,  after  dinner,  presented  our- 
selves at  his  lodgings  in  Montparnasse.  We  found 
him  in  bed,  with  Nina  reading  to  him.  He  was 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  21 

feverish,  and  Nina  had  insisted  that  he  should  stop  at 
home.  He  would  be  all  right  to-morrow.  He  scoffed 
at  our  suggestion  that  he  should  see  a  doctor ;  he  was 
one  of  those  men  who  affect  to  despise  the  medical 
profession.  But  early  on  the  following  morning  a 
cominissionnaire  brought  me  a  note  from  Nina.  "  My 
father  is  very  much  worse.  Can  you  come  at  once  ?  " 
He  was  delirious.  Poor  Nina,  white,  with  frightened 
eyes,  moved  about  like  one  distracted.  We  sent  off 
for  Dr.  Renoult,  we  had  in  a  Sister  of  Charity. 
Everything  that  could  be  done  was  done.  Till  the 
very  end,  none  of  us  for  a  moment  doubted  that  he 
would  recover.  It  was  impossible  to  conceive  that 
that  strong,  affirmative  life  could  be  extinguished. 
And  even  after  the  end  had  come,  the  end  with  its 
ugly  suite  of  material  circumstances,  I  don't  think 
any  of  us  realized  what  it  meant.  It  was  as  if  we  had 
been  told  that  one  of  the  forces  of  Nature  had  become 
inoperative.  And  Nina,  through  it  all,  was  like  some 
pale  thing  in  marble,  that  breathed  and  moved :  white, 
dazed,  helpless,  with  aching,  incredulous  eyes,  suffer- 
ing everything,  understanding  nothing. 

When  it  came  to  the  worst  of  the  dreadful  neces- 
sary businesses  that  followed,  some  of  us,  somehow, 
managed  to  draw  her  from  the  death-chamber  into 
another  room,  and  to  keep  her  there,  while  others  of 
us  got  it  over.  It  was  snowing  that  afternoon,  I  re- 
member, a  melancholy,  hesitating  snowstorm,  with 
large  moist  flakes  that  fluttered  down  irresolutely, 
and  presently  disintegrated  into  rain ;  but  we  had  not 
far  to  go.  Then  we  returned  to  Nina,  and  for  many 
days  and  nights  we  never  dared  to  leave  her.  You 
will  guess  whether  the  question  of  her  future,  espe- 


22  GRAY  ROSES. 

cially  of  her  immediate  future,  weighed  heavily  upon 
our  minds.  In  the  end,  however,  it  appeared  to  have 
solved  itself,  —  though  I  can't  pretend  that  the  solu- 
tion was  exactly  all  we  could  have  wished. 

Her  father  h#d  a  half-brother  (we  learned  this  from 
his  papers),  incumbent  of  rather  an  important  living 
in  the  north  of  England.  We  also  learned  that  the 
brothers  had  scarcely  seen  each  other  twice  in  a  score 
of  years,  and  had  kept  up  only  the  most  fitful  corre- 
spondence. Nevertheless,  we  wrote  to  the  clergyman, 
describing  the  sad  case  of  his  niece,  and  in  reply  we 
got  a  letter,  addressed  to  Nina  herself,  saying  that  of 
course  she  must  come  at  once  to  Yorkshire,  and  con- 
sider the  rectory  her  home.  I  don't  need  to  recount 
the  difficulties  we  had  in  explaining  to  her,  in  per- 
suading her.  I  have  known  few  more  painful  moments 
than  that  when,  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  half  a  dozen  of 
us  established  the  poor,  benumbed,  bewildered  child 
in  her  compartment,  and  sent  her,  with  our  godspeed, 
alone  upon  her  long  journey  —  to  her  strange  kindred, 
and  the  strange  conditions  of  life  she  would  have  to 
encounter  among  them.  From  the  Cafe  Bleu  to  a 
Yorkshire  parsonage!  And  Nina's  was  not  by  any 
means  a  neutral  personality,  nor  her  mind  a  blank 
sheet  of  paper.  She  had  a  will  of  her  own ;  she  had 
convictions,  aspirations,  traditions,  prejudices,  which 
she  would  hold  to  with  enthusiasm  because  they  had 
been  her  father's,  because  her  father  had  taught  them 
to  her;  and  she  had  manners,  habits,  tastes.  She 
would  be  sure  to  horrify  the  people  she  was  going  to ; 
she  would  be  sure  to  resent  their  criticism,  their 
slightest  attempt  at  interference.  Oh,  my  heart  was 
full  of  misgivings ;  yet  —  she  had  no  money,  she  was 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  23 

eighteen  years  old  —  what  else  could  we  advise  her  to 
do?  All  the  same,  her  face,  as  it  looked  down  upon 
us  from  the  window  of  her  railway  carriage,  white, 
with  big  terrified  eyes  fixed  in  a  gaze  of  blank  un- 
comprehending anguish,  kept  rising  up  to  reproach 
me  for  weeks  afterwards.  I  had  her  on  iny  conscience 
as  if  I  had  personally  wronged  her. 


VI 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  during  her  absence, 
she  hardly  wrote  to  us.  She  is  of  far  too  hasty  and 
impetuous  a  nature  to  take  kindly  to  the  task  of  letter- 
writing  ;  her  moods  are  too  inconstant ;  her  thoughts, 
her  fancies,  supersede  one  another  too  rapidly.  Any- 
how, beyond  the  telegram  we  had  made  her  promise 
to  send,  announcing  her  safe  arrival,  the  most  favored 
of  us  got  nothing  more  than  an  occasional  scrappy 
note,  if  he  got  so  much ;  while  the  greater  number 
of  the  long  epistles  some  of  us  felt  in  duty  bound 
to  address  to  her,  elicited  not  even  the  semblance  of 
an  acknowledgment.  Hence,  about  the  particulars  of 
her  experience  we  were  quite  in  the  dark,  though 
of  its  general  features  we  were  informed,  succinctly, 
in  a  big,  dashing,  uncompromising  hand,  that  she 
"hated"  them. 


VII 

I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  late  in  April  or  early 
in  May  that  Nina  left  us.     But  one  day  towards  the 


24  GRAY  ROSES. 

middle  of  October,  coming  home  from  the  restaurant 
where  I  had  lunched,  I  found  in  my  letter-box,  in  the 
concierge's  room,  two  half  sheets  of  paper,  folded,  with 
the  corners  turned  down,  and  my  name  superscribed  in 
pencil.  The  handwriting  startled  me  a  little — and 
yet,  no,  it  was  impossible.  Then  I  hastened  to  un- 
fold, and  read,  and  of  course  it  was  the  impossible 
which  had  happened. 

"  Mon  cher,  I  am  sorry  not  to  find  you  at  home,  but 
I  '11  wait  at  the  cafe*  at  the  corner  till  half-past  twelve. 
It  is  now  midi  juste."  That  was  the  first.  The 
second  ran :  "  I  have  waited  till  a  quarter  to  one. 
Now  I  am  going  to  the  Bleu  for  luncheon.  I  shall 
be  there  till  three."  And  each  was  signed  with  the 
initials,  N.  C. 

It  was  not  yet  two,  so  I  had  plenty  of  time.  But 
you  will  believe  that  I  did  n't  loiter  on  that  account. 
I  dashed  out  of  the  loge  —  into  the  street  —  down  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel  —  into  the  Bleu,  breathless^. 
At  the  far  end  Nina  was  seated  before  a  marble  table, 
with  Madame  Chanve  in  smiles  and  tears  beside  her. 
I  heard  a  little  cry ;  I  felt  myself  seized  and  enveloped 
for  a  moment  by  something  like  a  whirlwind  —  oh,  but 
a  very  pleasant  whirlwind,  warm,  and  fresh,  and  frag- 
rant of  violets ;  I  received  two  vigorous  kisses,  one 
on  either  cheek ;  and  then  I  was  held  off  at  arm's 
length,  and  examined  by  a  pair  of  laughing  eyes. 

And  at  last  a  voice  —  rather  a  deep  voice  for  a 
woman's,  with  just  a  crisp  edge  to  it,  that  might 
have  been  called  slightly  nasal,  but  was  agreeable 
and  individual  —  a  voice  said:  "En  voila  assez. 
Come  and  sit  down." 

She   had  finished   her  luncheon,  and  was   taking 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  25 

coffee;  and  if  the  whole  truth  must  be  told,  I'm 
afraid  she  was  taking  it  with  a  petit-verre  and  a 
cigarette.  She  wore  an  exceedingly  simple  black 
frock,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  in  her  breast,  and  a 
hat  with  a  sweeping  black  feather  and  a  daring  brim. 
Her  dark  luxurious  hair  broke  into  a  riot  of  fluffy 
little  curls  about  her  forehead,  and  thence  waved 
richly  away  to  where  it  was  massed  behind;  her 
cheeks  glowed  with  a  lovely  color  (thanks,  doubt- 
less, to  Yorkshire  breezes :  sweet  are  the  uses  of 
adversity) ;  her  eyes  sparkled ;  her  lips  curved  in 
a  perpetual  play  of  smiles,  letting  her  delicate  little 
teeth  show  themselves  furtively;  and  suddenly  I 
realized  that  this  girl,  whom  I  had  never  thought 
of  save  as  one  might  think  of  one's  younger  sister, 
suddenly  I  realized  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  a 
radiantly,  perhaps  even  a  dangerously,  handsome 
woman.  I  saw  suddenly  that  she  was  not  merely 
au  attribute,  an  aspect,  of  another,  not  merely  Alfred 
Childe's  daughter ;  she  was  a  personage  in  herself,  a 
personage  to  be  reckoned  with. 

This  sufficiently  obvious  perception  came  upon  me 
with  such  force,  and  brought  me  such  emotion,  that 

I  dare  say  for  a  little  while  I  sat  vacantly  staring  at 
her,  with  an  air  of   preoccupation.     Anyhow,  all  at 
once  she  laughed,  and  cried  out,   "Well,  when  you 
get   back   .    .    .  ? "    and,  "  Perhaps,"  she    questioned, 

II  perhaps  you  think  it  polite  to  go  off  wool-gather- 
ing like   that  ? "      Whereupon   I   recovered    myself 
with   a  start,  and   laughed   too. 

"  But  say  that  you  are  surprised,  say  that  you  are 
glad,  at  least,"  she  went  on. 

Surprised !  glad !  But  what  did  it  mean  ?  What 
was  it  all  about  ? 


26  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  I  could  u't  stand  it  any  longer,  that 's  all.  I  have 
come  home.  Oh,  que  c'est  bon,  que  c'est  bon,  que 
c'est  bon ! " 

«  And  —  England  ?  —  Yorkshire  ?  —  your  people  ?  " 

"Don't  speak  of  it.  It  was  a  bad  dream.  It  is 
over.  It  brings  bad  luck  to  speak  of  bad  dreams. 
I  have  forgotten  it.  I  am  here  —  in  Paris  —  at 
home.  Oh,  que  c'est  bon!"  And  she  smiled 
blissfully  through  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Don't  tell  me  that  happiness  is  an  illusion.  It  is 
her  habit,  if  you  will,  to  flee  before  us  and  elude  us ; 
but  sometimes,  sometimes  we  catch  up  with  her,  and 
can  hold  her  for  long  moments  warm  against  our 
hearts. 

"  Oh,  mon  pere !  It  is  enough  —  to  be  here,  where 
he  lived,  where  he  worked,  where  he  was  happy," 
Nina  murmured  afterwards. 

She  had  arrived  the  night  before ;  she  had  taken  a 
room  in  the  Hotel  d'Espagne,  in  the  Rue  de  Medicis, 
opposite  the  Luxembourg  Garden.  I  was  as  yet  the 
only  member  of  the  old  set  she  had  looked  up.  Of 
course  I  knew  where  she  had  gone  first  —  but  not  to 
cry  —  to  kiss  it  —  to  place  flowers  on  it.  She  could 
not  cry  —  not  now.  She  was  too  happy,  happy,  happy. 
Oh,  to  be  back  in  Paris,  her  home,  where  she  had  lived 
with  him,  where  every  stick  and  stone  was  dear  to  her 
because  of  him ! 

Then,  glancing  up  at  the  clock,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  key,  "  Mais  allons  done,  paresseux !  You 
must  take  me  to  see  the  camarades.  You  must  take 
me  to  see  Chalks." 

And  in  the  street  she  put  her  arm  through  mine, 
laughing,  and  saying,  "  On  nous^  croira  fiances."  She 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  27 

did  not  walk,  she  tripped,  she  all  but  danced  beside 
me,  chattering  joyously  in  alternate  French  and  Eng- 
lish. "  I  could  stop  and  kiss  them  all,  —  the  men,  the 
women,  the  very  pavement.  Oh,  Paris  !  Oh,  these 
good,  gay,  kind  Parisians  !  Look  at  the  sky  !  Look 
at  the  view  —  down  that  impasse — the  sunlight  and 
shadows  on  the  houses,  the  doorways,  the  people. 
Oh,  the  air!  Oh,  the  smells!  Que  c'est  bon  —  que 
je  suis  contente !  Et  dire  que  'j'ai  passe  cinq  mois, 
inais  cinq  grands  mois,  en  Angleterre.  Ah,  veinard, 
you  —  you  don't  know  how  you  're  blessed."  Pre- 
sently we  found  ourselves  laboring  knee-deep  in  a 
wave  of  black  pinafores,  and  Nina  had  plucked  her 
bunch  of  violets  from  her  breast,  and  was  dropping 
them  amongst  eager  ringers  and  rosy,  cherubic  smiles. 
And  it  was  constantly,  "  Tiens,  there 's  Madame 
Chose  in  her  kiosque.  Bonjour,  madame.  Vous  allez 
tou jours  bien  ?  "  and  "  Oh,  look!  old  Perronet  stand- 
ing before  his  shop  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  exactly  as  he 
has  stood  at  this  hour  every  day,  winter  or  summer, 
these  ten  years.  Bonjour,  M'sieu  Perronet."  And 
you  may  be  sure  that  the  kindly  French  Choses  and 
Perronets  returned  her  greetings  with  beaming  faces. 
"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  que  c'est  bon  de  vous  revoir 
ainsi.  Que  vous  avez  bonne  mine!"  "It  is  so 
strange,"  she  said,  "to  find  nothing  changed.  To 
think  that  everything  has  gone  on  quietly  in  the 
usual  way.  As  if  I  hadn't  spent  an  eternity  in 
exile!"  And  at  the  corner  of  one  street,  before  a 
vast  flaunting  "bazaar,"  with  a  prodigality  of  tawdry 
Oriental  wares  exhibited  on  the  pavement,  and  little 
black  shopmen  trailing  like  beetles  in  and  out 
amongst  them,  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  the  '  Mecque  du 


28  GRAY  ROSES. 

Quartier ' !  To  think  that  I  could  weep  for  joy  at 
seeing  the  '  Mecque  du  Quartier '  !  " 

By  and  by  we  plunged  into  a  dark  hallway,  climbed 
a  long,  unsavory,  corkscrew  staircase,  and  knocked  at 
a  door.  A  gruff  voice  having  answered,  "  'Trez  !  " 
we  entered  Chalks's  bare,  bleak,  paint-smelling  studio. 
He  was  working  (from  a  lay-figure)  with  his  back 
towards  us;  and  he  went  on  working  for  a  minute 
or  two  after  our  arrival,  without  speaking.  Then  he 
demanded,  in  a  sort  of  grunt,  "  Eh  bien,  qu'est-ce  que 
c'est  ?  "  always  without  pausing  in  his  work  or  look- 
ing round.  Nina  gave  two  little  ahems,  tense  with 
suppressed  mirth ;  and  slowly,  indifferently,  Chalks 
turned  an  absent-minded  face  in  our  direction.  But, 
next  instant,  there  was  a  shout  —  a  rush  —  a  confu- 
sion of  forms  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  —  and  I  real- 
ized that  I  was  not  the  only  one  to  be  honored  by  a 
kiss  and  an  embrace.  "Oh,  you're  covering  me  with 
paint/'  Nina  protested  suddenly  ;  and  indeed  he  had 
forgotten  to  drop  his  brush  and  palette,  and  great 
dabs  of  color  were  clinging  to  her  cloak.  While  he 
was  doing  penance,  scrubbing  the  garment  with  rags 
soaked  in  turpentine,  he  kept  shaking  his  head,  and 
murmuring,  from  time  to  time,  as  he  glanced  up  at 
her,  «  Well,  I  '11  be  dimmed." 

"  It 's  very  nice  and  polite  of  you,  Chalks,"  she 
said,  by  and  by,  "a  very  graceful  concession  to  my 
sex.  But,  if  you  think  it  would  relieve  you  once  for 
all,  you  have  my  full  permission  to  pronounce  it 
—  amned." 

Chalks  did  no  more  work  that  afternoon ;  and 
that  evening  quite  twenty  of  us  dined  at  Madame 
Chanve's  j  and  it  was  almost  like  old  times. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  29 


VIII 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  explained  to  me  afterwards,  "  my 
uncle  is  a  good  man.  My  aunt  and  cousins  are  very 
good  women.  But  for  me  to  live  with  them,  —  pas 
possible,  mon  cher.  Their  thoughts  were  not  my 
thoughts,  we  could  not  speak  the  same  language. 
They  disapproved  of  me  unutterably.  They  suffered 
agonies,  poor  things.  Oh,  they  were  very  kind,  very 
patient.  But  — !  My  gods  were  their  devils.  My 
father  —  my  great,  grand,  splendid  father — was 
"poor  Alfred,"  "poor  uncle  Alfred."  Que  voulez- 
vous  ?  And  then  —  the  life,  the  society !  The 
parishioners  —  the  people  who  came  to  tea — the 
houses  where  we  sometimes  dined !  Are  you  inter- 
ested in  crops?  In  the  preservation  of  game?  In 
the  diseases  of  cattle  ?  Olala !  (C'est  bien  le  cas  de 
s'en  servir,  de  cette  expression-la.)  Olala,  lala!  And 
then  —  have  you  ever  been  homesick  ?  Oh,  I  longed,  I 
pined,  for  Paris,  as  one  suffocating  would  long,  would 
die,  for  air.  Enfin,  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 
They  thought  it  wicked  to  smoke  cigarettes.  My 
poor  aunt  —  when  she  smelt  cigarette-smoke  in  my 
bed-room !  Oh,  her  face !  I  had  to  sneak  away, 
behind  the  shrubbery  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  for 
stealthy  whiffs.  And  it  was  impossible  to  get  French 
tobacco.  At  last  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and 
fled.  It  will  have  been  a  terrible  shock  for  them. 
But  better  one  good  blow  than  endless  little  ones  ; 
better  a  lump-sum  than  instalments  with  interest." 

But  what  was  she  going  to  do  ?  How  was  she 
going  to  live  ?  For,  after  all,  much  as  she  loved 
Paris,  she  could  n't  subsist  on  its  air  and  sunshine. 


30  GRAY  ROSES. 

Oh,  never  fear !     I  '11  manage  somehow.    I  '11  not 
die  of  hunger,"  she  said  confidently. 


IX 

And,  sure  enough,  she  managed  very  well.  She 
gave  music  lessons  to  the  children  of  the  Quarter,  and 
English  lessons  to  clerks  and  shop-girls  ;  she  did  a 
little  translating ;  she  would  pose  now  and  then  for  a 
painter  friend,  —  she  was  the  original,  for  instance,  of 
Norton's  "  Woman  Dancing,"  which  you  know.  She 
even  —  thanks  to  the  employment  by  Chalks  of  what 
he  called  his  "  in/?ooence  "  —  she  even  contributed  a 
weekly  column  of  Paris  gossip  to  the  "Palladium," 
a  newspaper  published  at  Battle  Creek,  Michigan, 
U.  S.  A.,  Chalks's  native  town.  "Put  in  lots  about  me, 
and  talk  as  if  there  were  only  two  important  centres 
of  civilization  on  earth,  Battle  Crick  and  Parus,  and 
it'll  be  a  boom,"  Chalks  said.  We  used  to  have  great 
fun  concocting  those  columns  of  Paris  gossip.  Nina, 
indeed,  held  the  pen  and  cast  a  deciding  vote  ;  but  we 
all  collaborated.  And  we  put  in  lots  about  Chalks,  — 
perhaps  rather  more  than  he  had  bargained  for. 
With  an  irony  (we  trusted)  too  subtle  to  be  suspected 
by  the  good  people  of  Battle  Creek,  we  would  intro- 
duce their  illustrious  fellow-citizen,  casually,  between 
the  Pope  and  the  President  of  the  Eepublic ;  we  would 
sketch  him  as  he  strolled  in  the  Boulevard  arm-in- 
arm  with  Monsieur  Meissonier,  as  he  dined  with  the 
Perpetual  Secretary  of  the  French  Academy,  or  drank 
his  bock  in  the  afternoon  with  the  Grand  Chancellor 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor;  we  would  compose  solemn 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  31 

descriptive  criticisms  of  his  works,  which  almost  made 
us  die  of  laughing;  we  would  interview  him — at 
length  —  about  any  subject;  we  would  give  elaborate 
bulletins  of  his  health,  and  brilliant  pen-pictures  of 
his  toilets.  Sometimes  we  would  betroth  him,  marry 
him,  divorce  him ;  sometimes,  when  our  muse  impelled 
us  to  a  particularly  daring  flight,  we  would  insinuate, 
darkly,  sorrowfully,  that  perhaps  the  great  man's 
morals  .  .  .  but  no  !  We  were  persuaded  that  rumor 
accused  him  falsely.  The  story  that  he  had  been 
seen  dancing  at  Bullier's  with  the  notorious  Duchesse 

de  Z was  a  baseless  fabrication.     Unprincipled? 

Oh,  we  were  nothing  if  not  unprincipled.  And  our 
pleasure  was  so  exquisite,  and  it  worried  our  victim 
so.  "I  suppose  you  think  it's  funny,  don't  you?" 
he  used  to  ask,  with  a  feint  of  superior  scorn  which 
put  its  fine  flower  to  our  hilarity.  "Look  out,  or 
you  '11  bust,"  he  would  warn  us,  the  only  unconvulsed 
member  present.  "  By  gum,  you  're  easily  amused." 
We  always  wrote  of  him  respectfully  as  Mr.  Charles 
K.  Smith ;  we  never  faintly  hinted  at  his  sobriquet. 
We  would  have  rewarded  liberally,  at  that  time,  any 
one  who  could  have  told  us  what  the  K.  stood  for. 
We  yearned  to  unite  the  cryptic  word  to  his  surname 
by  a  hyphen  ;  the  mere  abstract  notion  of  doing  so 
tilled  us  with  fearful  joy.  Chalks  was  right,  I  dare 
say ;  we  were  easily  amused.  And  Nina,  at  these 
moments  of  literary  frenzy  —  I  can  see  her  now :  her 
head  bent  over  the  manuscript,  her  hair  in  some  dis- 
array, a  spiral  of  cigarette-smoke  winding  ceiling- 
ward  from  between  the  fingers  of  her  idle  hand,  her 
lips  parted,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  mischievous  inspi- 
rations, her  face  pale  with  the  intensity  of  her  glee. 


32  CRAY  ROSES. 

I  can  see  her  as  she  would  look  up,  eagerly,  to  listen 
to  somebody's  suggestion,  or  as  she  would  motion  to 
us  to  l>e  silent,  crying,  "  Attendez  —  I  Jve  got  an 
idea."  Then  her  pen  would  dash  swiftly,  noisily,  over 
her  paper  for  a  little,  whilst  we  all  waited  expect- 
antly ;  and  at  last  she  would  lean  back,  drawing  a 
long  breath,  and  tossing  the  pen  aside,  to  read  her 
paragraph  out  to  us. 

In  a  word,  she  managed  very  well ,  and  by  no  means 
died  of  hunger.  She  could  scarcely  afford  Madame 
Chanve's  three-franc  table  d'hote,  it  is  true ;  but  we 
could  dine  modestly  at  Leon's,  over  the  way,  and  re- 
turn to  the  Bleu  for  coffee ;  though,  it  must  be  added, 
that  establishment  no  longer  enjoyed  a  monopoly 
of  our  custom.  We  patronized  it  and  the  Vachette, 
the  Source,  the  Ecoles,  the  Souris,  indifferently.  Or 
we  would  sometimes  spend  our  evenings  in  Nina's 
rooms.  She  lived  in  a  tremendously  swagger  house 
in  the  Avenue  de  1'Observatoire,  —  on  the  sixth  floor, 
to  be  sure,  but  "there  was  a  carpet  all  the  way  up." 
She  had  a  charming  little  salon,  with  her  own  furni- 
ture and  piano  (the  same  that  had  formerly  embel- 
lished our  cafe),  and  no  end  of  books,  pictures,  ,dra- 
peries,  and  pretty  things,  inherited  from  her  father 
or  presented  by  her  friends. 

By  this  time  the  inevitable  had  happened,  and  we 
were  all  in  love  with  her,  —  hopelessly,  resignedly  so, 
and  without  internecine  rancor;  for  she  treated  us, 
indiscriminately,  with  a  serene,  impartial,  tolerant 
derision ;  but  we  were  savagely,  luridly,  jealous  and 
suspicious  of  all  new-comers  and  of  all  outsiders.  If 
we  could  not  win  her,  no  one  else  should;  and  we 
formed  ourselves  round  her  in  a  ring  of  fire.  Oh,  the 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  33 

maddening,  mock-sentimental,  mock-sympathetic  face 
she  would  pull  when  one  of  us  ventured  to  sigh  to 
her  of  his  passion!  The  way  she  would  lift  her  eye- 
brows and  gaze  at  you  with  a  travesty  of  pity,  shak- 
ing her  head  pensively,  and  murmuring,  "Mon  pauvre 
ami  !  Only  fancy!  "  And  then  how  the  imp,  lurking 
in  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  with  only  the  barest  pre- 
tence of  trying  to  conceal  himself,  would  suddenly 
leap  forth  in  a  peal  of  laughter!.  She  had  lately 
read  Mr.  Howells's  "  Undiscovered  Country,"  and  had 
adopted  the  Shakers'  paraphrase  for  love :  "  Feeling 
foolish."  —  "  Feeling  pretty  foolish  to-day,  air  ye, 
gentlemen?"  she  inquired,  mimicking  the  dialect  of 
Chalks.  "Well,  I  guess  you  just  ain't  feeling  any 
more  foolish  than  you  look."  —  If  she  would  but  have 
taken  us  seriously  !  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  we 
knew  she  was  anything  but  temperamentally  cold. 
Chalks  formulated  the  potentialities  we  divined  in 
her,  when  he  remarked,  regretfully,  wistfully,  as  he 
often  did,  "  She  could  love  like  Hell."  Once,  in  a 
reckless  moment,  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  tell  her 
this  point-blank.  "  Oh,  naughty  Chalks  ! "  she  remon- 
strated, shaking  her  finger  at  him.  "Do  you  think 
that's  a  pretty  word?  But  —  I  dare  say  I  could." 

"All  the  same,  Lord  help  the  man  you  marry," 
Chalks  continued  gloomily. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  never  marry,"  Nina  cried.  "  Because, 
first,  I  don't  approve  of  matrimony  as  an  institution. 
And  then  —  as  you  say  —  Lord  help  my  husband,  I 
should  be  such  an  uncomfortable  wife.  So  capricious, 
and  flighty,  and  tantalizing,  and  unsettling,  and  dis- 
obedient, and  exacting,  and  everything.  Oh,  but  a 
horrid  wife !  No,  I  shall  never  marry.  Marriage  is 

3 


34  GRAY  ROSES. 

quite  too  out-of-date.  I  sha'n't  marry ;  but  if  I  ever 
meet  a  man  and  love  him  —  ah !  "  She  placed  two 
fingers  upon  her  lips,  and  kissed  them,  and  waved  the 
kiss  to  the  skies. 

This  fragment  of  conversation  passed  in  the  Lux- 
embourg Garden;  and  the  three  or  four  of  us  by 
whom  she  was  accompanied  glared  threateningly  at 
our  mental  image  of  that  not-impossible  upstart  whom 
she  might  some  day  meet  and  love.  We  were  sure,  of 
course,  that  he  would  be  a  beast;  we  hated  him  not 
merely  because  he  would  have  cut  us  out  with  her, 
but  because  he  would  be  so  distinctly  our  inferior,  so 
hopelessly  unworthy  of  her,  so  helplessly  incapable 
of  appreciating  her.  I  think  we  conceived  of  him  as 
tall,  with  drooping  fair  moustaches,  and  contemptibly 
meticulous  in  his  dress.  He  would  probably  not  be 
of  the  Quarter ;  he  would  sneer  at  us. 

11  He  '11  not  understand  her,  he  '11  not  respect  her. 
Take  her  peculiar  views.  We  know  where  she  gets 
them.  But  he  —  he'll  despise  her  for  them,  at  the 
very  time  he 's  profiting  by  'em,"  some  one  said. 

Her  peculiar  views  of  the  institution  of  matrimony, 
the  speaker  meant.  She  had  got  them  from  her  father. 
"  The  relations  of  the  sexes  should  be  as  free  as  friend- 
ship," he  had  taught.  "If  a  man  and  a  woman  love 
each  other,  it  is  nobody's  business  but  their  own. 
Neither  the  Law  nor  Society  can,  with  any  show  of 
justice,  interfere.  That  they  do  interfere,  is  a  sur- 
vival of  feudalism,  a  survival  of  the  system  under 
which  the  individual,  the  subject,  had  no  liberty,  no 
rights.  If  a  man  and  a  woman  love  each  other,  they 
should  be  as  free  to  determine  for  themselves  the 
character,  extent,  and  duration  of  their  intercourse, 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  35 

as  two  friends  should  be.  If  they  wish  to  live  to- 
gether under  the  same  roof,  let  them.  If  they  wish 
to  retain  their  separate  domiciles,  let  them.  If  they 
wish  to  cleave  to  each  other  till  death  severs  them 

—  if  they  wish  to  part  on  the  morrow  of  their  union 

—  let  them,  by  heaven.     But  the  couple  who  go  before 
a  priest  or  a  magistrate,  and  bind  themselves  in  cere- 
monial marriage,  are  serving  to  perpetuate  tyranny, 
are  insulting  the  dignity  of  human  nature."      Such 
was  the  gospel  which  Nina  had  absorbed  (don't,  for 
goodness'  sake,  imagine  that  I  approve  of  it  because 
I  cite  it),  and  which  she  professed  in  entire   good 
faith.     We  felt  that  the  coming  man  would  misappre- 
hend both  it  and  her  —  though  he  would  not  hesitate 
to  make  a  convenience  of  it.     Ugh,  the  cynic ! 

We  formed  ourselves  round  her  in  a  ring  of  fire, 
hoping  to  frighten  the  beast  away.  But  we  were 
miserably,  fiercely  anxious,  suspicious,  jealous.  We 
were  jealous  of  everything  in  the  shape  of  a  man  that 
came  into  any  sort  of  contact  with  her :  of  the  men 
who  passed  her  in  the  street  or  rode  with  her  in  the 
omnibus ;  of  the  little  employes  de  commerce  to  whom 
she  gave  English  lessons  ;  of  everybody.  I  fancy  we 
were  always  more  or  less  uneasy  in  our  minds  when 
she  was  out  of  our  sight.  Who  could  tell  what  might 
be  happening  ?  With  those  lips  of  hers,  those  eyes  of 
hers  —  oh,  we  knew  how  she  could  love  :  Chalks  had. 
said  it.  Who  could  tell  what  might  already  have  hap- 
pened ?  Who  could  tell  that  the  coming  man  had 
not  already  come  ?  She  was  entirely  capable  of  con- 
cealing him  from  us.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  she 
would  seem  absent,  preoccupied.  How  could  we  be 
sure  that  she  was  n't  thinking  of  him  ?  Savoring 


36  GRAY  ROSES. 

anew  the  hours  she  had  passed  with  him  that  very 
day  ?  Or  dreaming  of  those  she  had  promised  him 
for  to-inorrow  ?  If  she  took  leave  of  us  —  might  he 
not  be  waiting  to  join  her  round  the  corner  ?  If  she 
spent  an  evening  away  from  us.  ... 

And  she  —  she  only  laughed ;  laughed  at  our  jeal- 
ousy, our  fears,  our  precautions,  as  she  laughed  at 
our  hankering  flame.  Not  a  laugh  that  reassured  us, 
though ;  an  inscrutable,  enigmatic  laugh,  that  might 
have  covered  a  multitude  of  sins.  She  had  taken  to 
calling  us  collectively  Loulou.  "  Ah,  le  pauv'  Loulou 
—  so  now  he  has  the  pretension  to  be  jealous."  Then 
she  would  be  interrupted  by  a  paroxysm  of  laughter ; 
after  which,  "  Oh,  qu'il  est  drole,"  she  would  gasp. 
"  Pourvu  qu'il  ne  devienne  pas  genant ! " 

It  was  all  very  well  to  laugh ;  but  some  of  us,  our 
personal  equation  quite  apart,  could  not  help  feeling 
that  the  joke  was  of  a  precarious  quality,  that  the 
situation  held  tragic  possibilities.  A  young  and 
attractive  girl,  by  no  means  constitutionally  insus- 
ceptible, and  imbued  with  heterodox  ideas  of  mar- 
riage—  alone  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 


I  have  heard  it  maintained  that  the  man  has  yet 
to  be  born,  who,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  if  he  conies  to 
think  the  matter  over,  won't  find  himself  at  some- 
thing of  a  loss  to  conceive  why  any  given  woman 
should  experience  the  passion  of  love  for  any  other 
man ;  that  a  woman's  choice,  to  all  men  save  the 
chosen,  is,  by  its^vevy  nature,  as  incomprehensible  as 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  37 

the  postulates  of  Hegel.  But,  in  Nina's  case,  even 
when  I  regard  it  from  this  distance  of  time,  I  still 
feel,  as  we  all  felt  then,  that  the  mystery  was  more 
than  ordinarily  obscure.  We  had  fancied  ourselves 
prepared  for  anything ;  the  only  thing  we  were  n't 
prepared  for  was  the  thing  that  befell.  We  had 
expected  "  him  "  to  be  offensive,  and  he  was  n't.  He 
was,  quite  simply,  insignificant.  He  was  a  South 
American,  a  Brazilian,  a  member  of  the  School  of 
Mines :  a  poor,  undersized,  pale,  spiritless,  apologetic 
creature,  with  rather  a  Teutonic-looking  name,  Ernest 
Mayer.  His  father,  or  uncle,  was  Minister  of  Agri- 
culture, or  Commerce,  or  something,  in  his  native 
land ;  and  he  himself  was  attached  in  some  nominal 
capacity  to  the  Brazilian  Legation,  in  the  Rue  de  Tehe- 
ran, whence,  on  state  occasions,  he  enjoyed  the  privi- 
lege of  enveloping  his  meagre  little  person  in  a  very 
gorgeous  diplomatic  uniform.  He  was  beardless,  with 
vague  features,  timid,  light-blue  eyes,  and  a  bluish, 
anaemic  skin.  In  manner  he  was  nervous,  tremu- 
lous, deprecatory  —  perpetually  bowing,  wriggling, 
stepping  back  to  let  you  pass,  waving  his  hands, 
palms  outward,  as  if  to  protest  against  giving  you 
trouble.  And  in  speech  —  upon  my  word,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  heard  him  compromise  himself  by  any 
more  dangerous  assertion  than  that  the  weather  was 
fine,  or  he  wished  you  good-day.  For  the  most  part  he 
listened  mutely,  with  a  flickering,  perfunctory  smile. 
From  time  to  time,  with  an  air  of  casting  fear  behind 
him  and  dashing  into  the  imminent  deadly  breach,  he 
would  hazzard  an  "Ah,  oui,"  or  a  "Pas  mal."  For 
the  rest,  he  played  the  piano  prettily  enough,  wrote 
colorless,  correct  French  verse,  and  was  reputed  to  be 


38  GRAY  ROSES. 

an  industrious  if  not  a  brilliant  student,  —  what  we 
called  un  serieux. 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  beautiful,  sumptuous 
Nina  Childe,  with  her  wit,  her  humor,  her  imagina- 
tion, loved  this  neutral  little  fellow ;  yet  she  made  no 
secret  of  doing  so.  We  tried  to  frame  a  theory  that 
would  account  for  it.  "  It 's  the  maternal  instinct," 
suggested  one.  "  It 's  her  chivalry,"  said  another ; 
"  she  's  the  sort  of  woman  who  could  never  be  very 
violently  interested  by  a  man  of  her  own  size.  She 
would  need  one  she  could  look  up  to,  or  else  one  she 
could  protect  and  pat  on  the  head."  " '  God  be 
thanked,  the  meanest  of  His  creatures  boasts  two 
soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with,  one  to  show  a 
woman  when  he  loves  her/  "  quoted  a  third.  "  Per- 
haps Coco  "  —  we  had  nicknamed  him  Coco  —  "  has 
luminous  qualities  that  we  don't  dream  of,  to  which 
he  gives  the  rein  when  they  're  a  deux." 

Anyhow,  if  we  were  mortified  that  she  should  have 
preferred  such  a  one  to  us,  we  were  relieved  to  think 
that  she  had  n't  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  a  black- 
guard, as  we  had  feared  she  would.  That  Coco  was 
a  blackguard  we  never  guessed.  We  made  the  best 
of  him,  because  we  had  to  choose  between  doing  that 
and  seeing  less  of  Nina :  in  time,  I  am  afraid  —  such 
is  the  influence  of  habit  —  we  rather  got  to  like  him, 
as  one  gets  to  like  any  innocuous  customary  thing. 
And  if  we  did  not  like  the  situation  —  for  none  of  us, 
whatever  might  have  been  our  practice,  shared  Nina's 
hereditary  theories  anent  the  sexual  conventions  — 
we  recognized  that  we  could  n't  alter  it,  and  we 
shrugged  our  shoulders  resignedly,  trusting  it  might 
be  no  worse. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  39 

And  then  one  day  she  announced,  "  Ernest  and  I 
are  going  to  be  married."  And  when  we  cried  out 
why,  she  explained  that  —  despite  her  own  conviction 
that  marriage  was  a  barbarous  institution  —  she  felt, 
in  the  present  state  of  public  opinion,  people  owed 
legitimacy  to  their  children.  So  Ernest,  who,  accord- 
ing to  both  French  and  Brazilian  law,  could  not,  at 
his  age,  marry  without  his  parents'  consent,  was 
going  home  to  procure  it.  He  would  sail  next  week ; 
he  would  be  back  before  three  months.  Ernest  sailed 
from  Lisbon  ;  and  the  post,  a  day  or  two  after  he  was 
safe  at  sea,  brought  Nina  a  letter  from  him.  It  was 
a  wild,  hysterical,  remorseful  letter,  in  which  he 
called  himself  every  sort  of  name.  He  said  his 
parents  would  never  dream  of  letting  him  marry  her. 
They  were  Catholics,  they  were  very  devout,  they  had 
prejudices,  they  had  old-fashioned  notions.  Besides, 
he  had  been  as  good  as  affianced  to  a  lady  of  their 
election  ever  since  he  was  born.  He  was  going  home 
to  marry  his  second  cousin. 


Shortly  after  the  birth  of  Camille  I  had  to  go  to 
London,  and  it  was  nearly  a  year  before  T  came  back 
to  Paris.  Nina  was  looking  better  than  when  I  had 
left,  but  still  in  nowise  like  her  old  self,  —  pale  and 
worn  and  worried,  with  a  smile  that  was  the  ghost  of 
her  former  one.  She  had  been  waiting  for  my  return, 
she  said,  to  have  a  long  talk  with  me.  "  I  have  made 
a  little  plan.  I  want  you  to  advise  me.  Of  course 
you  must  advise  me  to  stick  to  it." 


40  GRAY  ROSES. 

And  when  we  had  reached  her  lodgings,  and  were 
alone  in  the  salon,  "  It  is  about  Camille,  it  is  about 
her  bringing-up,"  she  explained.  "  The  Latin  Quarter  ? 
It  is  all  very  well  for  you,  for  ine  ;  but  for  a  growing 
child  ?  Oh,  my  case  was  different ;  I  had  my  father. 
But  Camille  ?  Restaurants,  cafes,  studios,  the  Boul' 
Miche,  and  this  little  garret  —  do  they  form  a  whole- 
some environment  ?  Oh,  no,  no  —  I  am  not  a  rene- 
gade. I  am  a  Bohemian ;  I  shall  always  be ;  it  is 
bred  in  the  bone.  But  my  daughter  —  ought  she  not 
to  have  the  opportunity,  at  least,  of  being  different, 
of  being  like  other  girls  ?  You  see,  I  had  my  father; 
she  will  have  only  me.  And  I  distrust  myself ;  I  have 
no  ( system.'  Shall  I  not  do  better,  then,  to  adopt  the 
system  of  the  world  ?  To  give  her  the  conventional 
education,  the  conventional  '  advantages '  ?  A  home, 
what  they  call  home  influences.  Then,  when  she  has 
grown  up,  she  can  choose  for  herself.  Besides,  there  is 
the  question  of  francs  and  centimes.  I  have  been  able 
to  earn  a  living  for  myself,  it  is  true.  But  even  that 
is  more  difikmlt  now  ;  I  can  give  less  time  to  work ;  I 
am  in  debt.  And  we  are  two ;  and  our  expenses  must 
naturally  increase  from  year  to  year.  And  I  should 
like  to  be  able  to  put  something  aside.  Hand-to- 
mouth  is  a  bad  principle  when  you  have  a  growing 
child.'7 

After  a  little  pause  she  went  on,  "  So  my  problem 
is,  first,  how  to  earn  our  livelihood,  and  secondly,  ho\v 
to  make  something  like  a  home  for  Camille,  some- 
thing better  than  this  tobacco-smoky,  absinthe-scented 
atmosphere  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  And  I  can  see  only 
one  way  of  accomplishing  the  two  things.  You  will 
smile  —  but  I  have  considered  it  from  every  point  of 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  41 

view.  I  have  examined  myself,  my  own  capabilities. 
I  have  weighed  all  the  chances.  I  wish  to  take  a  flat, 
in  another  quarter  of  the  town,  near  the  Etoile  or  the 
Pare  Monceau,  and  —  open  a  pension.  There  is  my 
plan." 

I  had  a  much  simpler  and  pleasanter  plan  of  my 
own,  but  of  that,  as  I  knew,  she  would  hear  nothing. 
I  did  not  smile  at  hers,  however;  though  I  confess  it 
was  not  easy  to  imagine  madcap  Nina  in  the  r6le  of 
a  landlady,  regulating  the  accounts  and  presiding  at 
the  table  of  a  boarding-house.  I  can't  pretend  that  I 
believed  there  was  the  slightest  likelihood  of  her 
filling  it  with  success.  But  I  said  nothing  to  dis- 
courage her ;  and  the  fact  that  she  is  rich  to-day 
proves  how  little  I  divined  the  resources  of  her  char- 
acter. For  the  boarding-house  she  kept  was  an  ex- 
ceedingly good  boarding-house ;  she  showed  herself 
the  most  practical  of  mistresses ;  and  she  prospered 
amazingly.  Jeanselme,  whose  father  had  recently 
died,  leaving  him  a  fortune,  lent  her  what  money  she 
needed  to  begin  with ;  she  took  and  furnished  a  flat 
in  the  Avenue  de  1'Alina ;  and  I  —  I  feel  quite  like 
an  historical  personage  when  I  remember  that  I  was 
her  first  boarder.  Others  soon  followed  me,  though, 
for  she  had  friends  amongst  all  the  peoples  of  the 
earth,  —  English  and  Americans,  Russians,  Italians, 
Austrians,  even  Roumanians  and  Servians,  as  well  as 
French  ;  and  each  did  what  he  could  to  help.  At  the 
end  of  a  year  she  overflowed  into  the  flat  above ;  then 
into  that  below;  then  she  acquired  the  lease  of  the 
entire  house.  She  worked  tremendously,  she  was  at 
it  early  and  late,  her  eyes  were  everywhere.  She  set 
an  excellent  table  ;  she  employed  admirable  servants ; 


42  GRAY  HOSES. 

and  if  her  prices  were  a  bit  stiff,  she  gave  you  your 
money's  worth,  and  there  were  no  "surprises."  It 
was  comfortable  and  quiet;  the  street  was  bright; 
the  neighborhood  convenient.  You  could  dine  in  the 
common  salle-a-manger  if  you  liked,  or  in  your  private 
sitting-room.  And  you  never  saw  your  landlady  ex- 
cept for  purposes  of  business.  She  lived  apart,  in  the 
entresol,  alone  with  Camille  and  her  body-servant, 
Jeanne.  There  was  the  "  home  "  she  had  set  out  to 
make. 

Meanwhile  another  sort  of  success  was  steadily 
thrusting  itself  upon  her,  —  she  certainly  never  went 
out  of  her  way  to  seek  it ;  she  was  much  too  busy  to 
do  that.  Such  of  her  old  friends  as  remained  in  Paris 
came  frequently  to  see  her,  and  new  friends  gathered 
round  her.  She  was  beautiful,  she  was  intelligent, 
responsive,  entertaining.  In  her  salon,  on  a  Friday 
evening,  you  would  meet  half  the  lions  that  were  at 
large  in  the  town,  — authors,  painters,  actors,  actresses, 
deputies,  even  an  occasional  Cabinet  minister.  Bed  rib- 
bons and  red  rosettes  shone  from  every  corner  of  the 
room.  She  had  become  one  of  the  oligarchs  of  la 
haute  Boheme,  she  had  become  one  of  the  celebrities 
of  Paris.  It  would  be  tiresome  to  count  the  novels, 
poems,  songs,  that  were  dedicated  to  her,  the  portraits 
of  her,  painted  or  sculptured,  that  appeared  at  the 
Mirlitons  or  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie.  Numberless 
were  the  partis  who  asked  her  to  marry  them  (I  know 
one,  at  least,  who  has  returned  to  the  charge  again 
and  again),  but  she  only  laughed,  and  vowed  she 
would  never  marry.  I  don't  say  that  she  has  never 
had  her  fancies,  her  experiences  ;  but  she  has  consis- 
tently scoffed  at  marriage.  At  any  rate,  she  has 


THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.  43 

never  affected  the  least  repentance  for  what  some 
people  would  call  her  "fault."  Her  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong  have  undergone  very  little  modification. 
She  was  deceived  in  her  estimate  of  the  character  of 
Ernest  Mayer,  if  you  please  ;  but  she  would  indig- 
nantly deny  that  there  was  anything  sinful,  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of,  in  her  relations  with  him.  And 
if,  by  reason  of  them,  she  at  one  time  suffered  a  good 
deal  of  pain,  I  am  sure  she  accounts  Camille  an  ex- 
ceeding great  compensation.  That  Camille  is  her 
child  she  would  scorn  to  make  a  secret.  She  has 
scorned  to  assume  the  conciliatory  title  of  Madame. 
As  plain  Mademoiselle,  with  a  daughter,  you  must 
take  her  or  leave  her.  And,  somehow,  all  this  has 
not  seemed  to  make  the  faintest  difference  to  her 
clientele,  not  even  to  the  primmest  of  the  English.  I 
can't  think  of  one  of  them  who  did  not  treat  her 
with  deference,  like  her,  and  recommend  her  house. 

But  her  house  they  need  recommend  no  more,  for 
she  has  sold  it.  Last  spring,  when  I  was  in  Paris, 
she  told  me  she  was  about  to  do  so.  "  Ouf !  I  have 
lived  with  my  nose  to  the  grindstone  long  enough.  I 
am  going  to  *  retire."5  What  money  she  had  saved 
from  season  to  season,  she  explained,  she  had  entrusted 
to  her  friend  Baron  C  *  *  *  *  *  for  speculation. 
"  He  is  a  wizard,  and  so  I  am  a  rich  woman.  I  shall 
have  an  income  of  something  like  three  thousand 
pounds,  mon  cher !  Oh,  we  will  roll  in  it.  I  have 
had  ten  bad  years  —  ten  hateful  years.  You  don't 
know  how  I  have  hated  it  all,  this  business,  this 
drudgery,  this  cut-and-dried,  methodical  existence, — 
moi,  enfant  de  Boheme !  But,  enfin,  it  was  obliga- 
tory. Now  we  will  change  all  that.  Nous  revien- 


44  GRAY  ROSES. 

drons  a  nos  premieres  amours.  I  shall  have  ten  good 
years, — ten  years  of  barefaced  pleasure.  Then  —  I 
will  range  myself  —  perhaps.  There  is  the  darlingest 
little  house  for  sale,  a  sort  of  chalet,  built  of  red 
brick,  with  pointed  windows  and  things,  in  the  Rue 
de  Lisbonne.  I  shall  buy  it  —  furnish  it  —  decorate 
it.  Oh,  you  will  see.  I  shall  have  my  carriage,  I 
shall  have  toilets,  I  shall  entertain,  I  shall  give  din- 
ners —  olala !  No  more  boarders,  no  more  bores,  cares, 
responsibilities.  Only  my  friends  and  —  life  !  I 
feel  like  one  emerging  from  ten  years  in  the  galleys, 
ten  years  of  penal  servitude.  To  the  Pension  Childe 
—  bonsoir !" 

"  That 's  all  very  well  for  you,"  her  listener  com- 
plained sombrely.  "But  for  me?  Where  shall  I 
stop  when  I  come  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  With  me.  You  shall  be  my  guest.  I  will  kill 
you  if  you  ever  go  elsewhere.  You  shall  pass  your 
old  age  in  a  big  chair  in  the  best  room,  and  Camille 
and  I  will  nurse  your  gout  and  make  herb-tea  for 
you." 

"And  I  shall  sit  and  think  of  what  might  have 
been." 

"  Yes,  we  '11  indulge  all  your  little  foibles.  You 
shall  sit  and  '  feel  foolish '  —  from  dawn  to  dewy 
eve." 


XII 

If  you  had  chanced  to  be  walking  in  the  Bois-de- 
Boulogne  this  afternoon,  you  might  have  seen  a  smart 
little  basket-phaeton  flash  past,  drawn  by  two  glossy 


THE  BOHEMIAN    GIRL.  45 

bays,  and  driven  by  a  woman,  —  a  woman  with  spark- 
ling eyes,  a  lovely  color,  great  quantities  of  soft  dark 
hair,  and  a  figure  — 

"  Helas,  mon  pere,  la  taille  d'une  deesse  "— 

a  smiling  woman,  in  a  wonderful  blue-gray  toilet, 
gray  driving-gloves,  and  a  bold-brimmed  gray-felt  hat 
with  waving  plumes.  And  in  the  man  beside  her  you 
would  have  recognized  your  servant.  You  would 
have  thought  me  in  great  luck,  perhaps  you  would 
have  envied  me.  But  —  esse,  quam  videri !  —  I  would 
I  were  as  enviable  as  I  looked. 


MERCEDES. 


MEKCEDES. 

WHEN  I  was  a  child  some  one  gave  me  a  family  of 
white  mice.  I  don't  remember  how  old  I  was,  I  think 
about  ten  or  eleven ;  but  I  remember  very  clearly  the 
day  I  received  them.  It  must  have  been  a  Thursday, 
a  half-holiday,  for  I  had  come  home  from  school 
rather  early  in  the  afternoon.  Alexandre,  dear  old 
ruddy  round-faced  Alexandre,  who  opened  the  door 
for  me,  smiled  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  announce, 
"  There  's  a  surprise  in  store  for  you,  sir."  Then  my 
mother  smiled  too,  a  smile,  I  thought,  of  peculiar 
promise  and  interest.  After  I  had  kissed  her  she 
said,  "  Come  into  the  dining-room.  There 's  some- 
thing you  will  like."  Perhaps  I  concluded  it  would 
be  something  to  eat.  Anyhow,  all  agog  with  cu- 
riosity, I  followed  her  into  the  dining-room  —  and 
Alexandre  followed  me,  anxious  to  take  part  in  the 
rejoicing.  In  the  window  stood  a  big  cage,  enclosing 
the  family  of  white  mice. 

I  remember  it  as  a  very  big  cage  indeed ;  no  doubt, 
I  should  find  it  shrunken  to  quite  moderate  dimen- 
sions if  I  could  see  it  again.  There  were  three 
generations  of  mice  in  it,  —  a  fat  old  couple,  the 
founders  of  the  race,  dozing  phlegmatically  on  their 
laurels  in  a  corner;  then  a  dozen  medium-sized,  slen- 
der mice,  trim  and  youthful-looking,  rushing  irrele- 
vantly hither  and  thither,  with  funny  inquisitive 
little  faces ;  and  then  a  squirming  mass  of  pink 

4 


50  GRA  Y  ROSES. 

things,  like  caterpillars,  that  were  really  infant  mice, 
new-born.  They  did  n't  remain  infants  long,  though. 
In  a  few  days  they  had  put  on  virile  togas  of  white 
fur,  and  were  scrambling  about  the  cage,  and  nibbling 
their  food  as  independently  as  their  elders.  The 
rapidity  with  which  my  mice  multiplied  and  grew  to 
maturity  was  a  constant  source  of  astonishment  to 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  every  morning  I  found  a  new 
litter  of  young  mice  in  the  cage,  —  though  how  they 
had  effected  an  entrance  through  the  wire  gauze  that 
lined  it  was  a  hopeless  puzzle,  —  and  these  would  have 
become  responsible,  self-supporting  mice  in  no  time. 

My  mother  told  me  that  somebody  had  sent  me 
this  soul-stirring  present  from  the  country,  and  I 
dare  say  I  was  made  to  sit  down  and  write  a  letter 
of  thanks.  But  I  'ni  ashamed  to  own  I  can't  remem- 
ber who  the  giver  was.  I  have  a  vague  notion  that 
it  was  a  lady,  an  elderly  maiden-lady  —  Mademoi- 
selle .  .  .  something  that  began  with  P  —  who  lived 
near  Tours,  and  who  used  to  come  to  Paris  once  or 
twice  a  year,  and  always  brought  me  a  box  of  prunes. 

Alexandre  carried  the  cage  into  my  play-room,  and 
set  it  up  against  the  wall.  I  stationed  myself  in  front 
of  it,  and  remained  there  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon, 
gazing  in,  entranced.  To  watch  their  antics,  their 
comings  and  goings,  their  labors  and  amusements,  to 
study  their  shrewd,  alert  physiognomies,  to  wonder 
about  their  feelings,  thoughts,  intentions,  to  try  to 
divine  the  meaning  of  their  busy  twittering  lan- 
guage,—  it  was  such  keen,  deep  delight.  Of  course 
I  was  an  anthropomorphist,  and  read  a  great  deal  of 
human  nature  into  them  ;  otherwise  it  would  n't  have 
been  such  fun.  I  dragged  myself  reluctantly  away 


MERCEDES.  51 

when  I  was  called  to  dinner.  It  was  hard  that  even- 
ing to  apply  myself  to  my  school-books.  Before  I 
went  to  bed  I  paid  them  a  parting  visit ;  they  were 
huddled  together  in  their  nest  of  cotton-wool,  sleeping 
soundly.  And  I  was  up  at  an  unheard-of  hour  next 
morning,  to  have  a  bout  with  them  before  going  to 
school.  I  found  Alexandre,  in  his  nightcap  and  long 
white  apron,  occupied  with  the  soins  de  proprete,  as 
he  said.  He  cleaned  out  the  cage,  put  in  fresh  food 
and  water,  and  then,  pointing  to  the  fat  old  couple, 
the  grandparents,  who  stopped  lazily  abed,  sitting  up 
and  rubbing  their  noses  together,  whilst  their  juniors 
scampered  merrily  about  their  affairs,  "Tiens!  On 
dirait  Monsieur  et  Madame  Denis,"  he  cried.  I  felt 
the  appositeness  of  his  allusion ;  and  the  old  couple 
were  forthwith  officially  denominated  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Denis,  for  their  resemblance  to  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  the  song;  though  which  was  Mon- 
sieur, and  which  Madame,  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  ever 
clearly  knew. 

It  was  a  little  after  this  that  I  was  taken  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  to  the  play.  I  fancy  the  theatre 
must  have  been  the  Porte  St.  Martin ;  at  any  rate,  it 
was  a  theatre  in  the  Boulevard,  and  towards  the 
East,  for  I  remember  the  long  drive  we  had  to  reach 
it.  And  the  piece  was  "  The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo." 
In  my  memory  the  adventure  shines,  of  course,  as  a 
vague  blur  of  light  and  joy ;  a  child's  first  visit  to 
the  play,  and  that  play  "  The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo !  " 
It  was  all  the  breath-taking  pleasantness  of  romance 
made  visible,  audible,  actual.  A  vague  blur  of  light 
and  joy,  from  which  only  two  details  separate  them- 
selves. First,  the  prison  scene,  and  an  aged  man, 


52  GRAY  ROSES. 

with  a  long  white  beard,  moving  a  great  stone  from 
the  wall;  then  —  the  figure  of  Mercedes.  I  went 
home  terribly  in  love  with  Mercedes.  Surely  there 
are  no  such  grandes  passions  in  maturer  life  as  those 
helpless,  inarticulate  ones  we  burn  in  secret  with, 
before  our  teens ;  surely  we  never  love  again  so 
violently,  desperately,  consumedly.  Anyhow,  I  went 
home  terribly  in  love  with  Mercedes.  And  —  do  all 
children  lack  humor?  —  I  picked  out  the  prettiest 
young  ladyish-looking  mouse  in  my  collection,  cut 
off  her  moustaches,  adopted  her  as  my  especial  pet, 
and  called  her  by  the  name  of  my  dea  certe. 

All  of  my  mice  by  this  time  had  become  quite  tame. 
They  had  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  a  comfortable 
home,  and  not  a  care  in  the  world ;  and  familiarity 
with  their  master  had  bred  assurance ;  and  so  they 
had  become  quite  tame,  and  shamefully,  abominably 
lazy.  Luxury,  we  are  taught,  was  ever  the  mother 
of  sloth.  I  could  put  my  hand  in  amongst  them,  and 
not  one  would  bestir  himself  the  littlest  bit  to  escape 
me.  Mercedes  and  I  were  inseparable.  I  used  to 
take  her  to  school  with  me  every  day ;  she  could  be 
more  conveniently  and  privately  transported  than  a 
lamb.  Each  lyceen  had  a  desk  in  front  of  his  form, 
.and  she  would  spend  the  school-hours  in  mine,  I 
leaving  the  lid  raised  a  little,  that  she  might  have 
light  and  air.  One  day,  the  usher  having  left  the 
room  for  a  moment,  I  put  her  down  on  the  floor, 
thereby  creating  a  great  excitement  amongst  my 
fellow-pupils,  who  got  up  from  their  places  and 
formed  an  eager  circle  round  her.  Then  suddenly 
the  usher  came  back,  and  we  all  hurried  to  our  seats, 
while  he,  catching  sight  of  Mercedes,  cried  out,  "A 


MERCEDES.  53 

mouse!  A  white  mouse!  Who  dares  to  bring  a 
white  mouse  to  the  class  ? "  And  he  made  a  dash 
for  her.  But  she  was  too  quick,  too  'cute,  for  "  the 
likes  of  "  Monsieur  le  Pion.  She  gave  a  jump,  and 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  disappeared  up  my 
leg,  under  my  trousers.  The  usher  searched  high 
and  low  for  her,  but  she  prudently  remained  in  her 
hiding-place;  and  thus  her  life  was  saved,  for,  when 
he  had  abandoned  his  ineffectual  chase,  he  announced, 
"  I  should  have  wrung  her  neck."  I  turned  pale  to 
imagine  the  doom  she  had  escaped  as  by  a  hair's- 
breadth.  "  It  is  useless  to  ask  which  of  you  brought 
her  here,"  he  continued.  "  But  mark  my  words :  if 
ever  I  find  a  mouse  again  in  the  class  /  will  wring  her 
neck!"  And  yet,  in  private  life,  this  bloodthirsty 
pion  was  a  quite  gentle,  kindly,  underfed,  underpaid, 
shabby,  struggling  fellow,  with  literary  aspirations, 
who  would  not  have  hurt  a  fly. 

The  secrets  of  a  schoolboy's  pocket!  I  once  saw 
a  boy  surreptitiously  angling  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
with  a  string  and  a  bent  pin.  Presently  he  landed  a 
fish,  a  fish  no  bigger  than  your  thumb  perhaps,  but 
still  a  fish.  Alive  and  wet  and  flopping  as  it  was,  he 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  I  used  to  carry  Mercedes 
about  in  mine.  One  evening,  when  I  put  in  my  hand 
to  take  her  out,  I  discovered  to  my  bewilderment  that 
she  was  not  alone.  There  were  four  little  pink  mites 
of  infant  mice  clinging  to  her. 

I  had  enjoyed  my  visit  to  the  theatre  so  much  that 
at  the  jour  de  1'an  my  father  included  a  toy-theatre 
among  my  presents.  It  had  a  real  curtain  of  green 
baize,  that  would  roll  up  and  down,  and  beautiful 
colored  scenery  that  you  could  shift,  and  footlights, 


54  GRAY  ROSES. 

and  a  trap-door  in  the  middle  of  the  stage  ;  and  indeed 
it  would  have  been  altogether  perfect,  except  for  the 
Company.  I  have  since  learned  that  this  is  not 
infrequently  the  case  with  theatres.  My  company 
consisted  of  pasteboard  men  and  women  who,  as 
artists,  struck  me  as  eminently  unsatisfactory.  They 
could  n't  move  their  arms  or  legs,  and  they  had 
such  stolid,  uninteresting  faces.  I  don't  know  how 
it  first  occurred  to  me  to  turn  them  all  off,  and  fill 
their  places  with  my  mice.  Mercedes,  of  course,  was 
leading  lady ;  Monsieur  and  Madame  Denis  were 
the  heavy  parents ;  and  a  gentlemanlike  young  mouse 
named  Leander  was  jeune  premier.  Then,  in  my 
leisure,  they  used  to  act  the  most  tremendous  plays. 
I  was  stage-manager,  prompter,  playwright,  chorus, 
and  audience,  placing  the  theatre  before  a  looking- 
glass,  so  that,  though  my  duties  kept  me  behind,  I 
could  peer  round  the  edge,  and  watch  the  spectacle  as 
from  the  front.  I  would  invent  the  lines  and  deliver 
them  ;  but,  that  my  illusion  might  be  the  more  com- 
plete, I  would  change  my  voice  for  each  personage. 
The  lines  tried  hard  to  be  verses ;  no  doubt  they  were 
vers  libres.  At  any  rate,  they  were  mouth-filling  and 
sonorous.  The  first  play  we  attempted,  I  need  hardly 
say,  was  "  Le  Cointe  de  Monte  Cristo,"  such  version 
of  it  as  I  could  reconstruct  from  memory.  That  had 
rather  a  long  run.  Then  I  dramatized  "  Aladdin  and 
the  Wonderful  Lamp,"  "  Paul  et  Virginie,"  "  Quentin 
Durward,"  and  "  La  Dame  de  Monsoreau."  Mercedes 
made  a  charming  Diane,  Leander  a  brilliant  and  dash- 
ing Bussy ;  Monsieur  Denis  was  cast  for  the  role  of 
Frere  Gorenflot ;  and  a  long,  thin,  cadaverous-looking 
mouse,  Don  Quichotte  by  name,  somewhat  inade- 


MERCEDES.  55 

qnately  represented  Chicot.  We  began,  as  you  see, 
with  melodrama ;  presently  we  descended  to  light 
comedy,  playing  "Les  Memoires  d'un  Ane,"  "Jean 
qui  rit,"  and  other  works  of  the  immortal  Madame  de 
Segur.  And  then  at  last  we  turned  a  new  leaf,  and 
became  naturalistic.  We  had  never  heard  of  the 
naturalist  school,  though  Monsieur  Zola  had  already 
published  some  volumes  of  the  "  Rougon-Macquart ;  " 
but  ideas  are  in  the  air;  and  we,  for  ourselves,  dis- 
covered the  possibilities  of  naturalism  simultaneously, 
as  it  were,  with  the  acknowledged  apostle  of  that  form 
of  art.  We  would  impersonate  the  characters  of 
our  own  world  —  our  schoolfellows  and  masters,  our 
parents,  servants,  friends  —  and  carry  them  through 
experiences  and  situations  derived  from  our  impres- 
sions of  real  life.  Perhaps  we  rather  led  them  a 
dance ;  and  I  dare  say  those  we  did  n't  like  came  in  for 
a  good  deal  of  retributive  justice.  It  was  a  little 
universe,  of  which  we  were  the  arch-arbiters,  our  will 
the  final  law. 

I  don't  know  whether  all  children  lack  humor; 
but  I  'm  sure  no  grown-up  author-manager  can  take  his 
business  more  seriously  than  I  took  mine.  Oh,  I 
enjoyed  it  hugely ;  the  hours  I  spent  at  it  were 
enraptured  hours ;  but  it  was  grim,  grim  earnest. 
After  a  while  I  began  to  long  for  a  less  subjective 
public,  a  more  various  audience.  I  would  summon 
the  servants,  range  them  in  chairs  at  one  end  of  the 
room,  conceal  myself  behind  the  theatre,  and  spout 
the  play  with  fervid  solemnity.  And  they  would 
giggle,  and  make  flippant  commentaries,  and  at  iny 
most  impassioned  climaxes  burst  into  guffaws.  My 
mice,  as  has  been  said,  were  overfed  and  lazy,  and  I 


56  GRAY  ROSES. 

used  to  have  to  poke  them  through  their  parts  with 
sticks  from  the  wings ;  but  this  was  a  detail  which  a 
superior  imagination  should  have  accepted  as  one  of 
the  conventions  of  the  art.  It  made  the  servants 
laugh,  however ;  and  when  I  would  step  to  the  front 
in  person,  and,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  beseech  them 
to  be  sober,  they  would  but  laugh  the  louder.  "  Bless 
you,  sir,  they  're  only  mice  —  ce  ne  sont  que  des 
souris,"  the  cook  called  out  on  one  such  occasion. 
She  meant  it  as  an  apology  and  a  consolation,  but  it 
was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all.  Only  mice,  indeed  !  To 
me  they  had  been  a  young  gentleman  and  lady  lost  in 
the  Desert  of  Sahara,  near  to  die  for  the  want  of 
water,  and  about  to  be  attacked,  captured,  and  sold 
into  slavery  by  a  band  of  Bedouin  Arabs.  Ah,  well, 
the  artist  must  steel  himself  to  meet  with  indifference 
or  derision  from  the  public,  to  be  ignored,  misunder- 
stood, or  jeered  at ;  and  to  rely  for  his  real,  his  legiti- 
mate reward  on  the  pleasure  he  finds  in  his  work. 

And  now  there  befell  a  great  change  in  my  life. 
Our  home  in  Paris  was  broken  up,  and  we  moved 
to  St.  Petersburg.  It  was  impossible  to  take  my 
mice  with  us ;  their  cage  would  have  hopelessly 
complicated  our  impedimenta.  So  we  gave  them  to 
the  children  of  our  concierge.  Mercedes,  however,  I 
was  resolved  I  would  not  part  with,  and  I  carried  her 
all  the  way  to  the  Russian  capital  by  hand.  In  my 
heart  I  was  looking  to  her  to  found  another  family,  — 
she  had  so  frequently  become  a  mother  in  the  past. 
But  month  succeeded  month,  and  she  forever  disap- 
pointed me,  and  at  last  I  abandoned  hope.  In  soli- 
tude and  exile  Mercedes  degenerated  sadly ;  got 
monstrously  fat ;  too  indolent  to  gnaw,  let  her  teeth 


MERCEDES.  57 

grow  to  a  preposterous  length ;  and  in  the  end  died 
of  a  surfeit  of  smetana. 

When  I  returned  to  Paris,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  to 
faire  mon  droit  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  I  paid  a  visit  to 
our  old  house,  and  discovered  the  same  old  concierge 
in  the  loge.  I  asked  her  about  the  mice,  and  she  told 
me  her  children  had  found  the  care  of  them  such  a 
bother  that  at  first  they  had  neglected  them,  and  at 
last  allowed  them  to  escape.  "  They  took  to  the  walls, 
and  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  Monsieur,  the  mice  of 
this  neighborhood  were  pied.  To  this  day  they  are 
of  a  paler  hue  than  elsewhere." 


A  BROKEN  LOOKING-GLASS. 


A  BKOKEN  LOOKING-GLASS. 

HE  climbed  the  three  flights  of  stone  stairs,  and 
put  his  key  into  the  lock ;  but  before  he  turned  it,  he 
stopped  —  to  rest,  to  take  breath.  On  the  door  his 
name  was  painted  in  big  white  letters,  MB.  RICHARD 
DANE.  It  is  always  silent  in  the  Temple  at  midnight ; 
to-night  the  silence  was  dense,  like  a  fog.  It  was 
Sunday  night ;  and  on  Sunday  night,  even  within  the 
hushed  precincts  of  the  Temple,  one  is  conscious  of 
a  deeper  hush. 

When  he  had  lighted  the  lamp  in  his  sitting-room, 
he  let  himself  drop  into  an  arm-chair  before  the  empty 
fireplace.  He  was  tired,  he  was  exhausted.  Yet 
nothing  had  happened  to  tire  him.  He  had  dined,  as 
he  always  dined  on  Sundays,  with  the  Eodericks,  in 
Cheyne  Walk;  he  had  driven  home  in  a  hansom. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  tired.  But  he 
was  tired.  A  deadly  lassitude  penetrated  his  body 
and  his  spirit,  like  a  fluid.  He  was  too  tired  to  go 
to  bed. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  getting  old,"  he  thought. 

To  a  second  person  the  matter  would  have  appeared 
not  one  of  supposition,  but  of  certainty,  not  of  pro- 
gression, but  of  accomplishment.  Getting  old,  indeed  ? 
But  he  was  old.  It  was  an  old  man,  gray  and  wrin- 
kled and  wasted,  who  sat  there,  limp,  sunken  upon 
himself,  in  his  easy-chair.  In  years,  to  be  sure,  he 


62  GRAY  ROSES. 

was  under  sixty ;  but  he  looked  like  a  man  of  seventy- 
five. 

"I  am  getting  old,  I  suppose  I  am  getting  old." 
And  vaguely,  dully,  he  contemplated  his  life,  spread 
out  behind  him  like  a  misty  landscape,  and  thought 
what  a  failure  it  had  been.  What  had  it  come  to  ? 
What  had  it  brought  him  ?  What  had  he  done  or 
won?  Nothing,  nothing.  It  had  brought  him  noth- 
ing but  old  age,  solitude,  disappointment,  and,  to-night 
especially,  a  sense  of  fatigue  and  apathy  that  weighed 
upon  him  like  a  suffocating  blanket.  On  a  table,  a 
yard  or  two  away,  stood  a  decanter  of  whiskey,  with 
some  soda-water  bottles  and  tumblers ;  he  looked  at 
it  with  heavy  eyes,  and  he  knew  that  there  was  what 
he  needed.  A  little  whiskey  would  strengthen  him, 
revive  him,  and  make  it  possible  for  him  to  bestir 
himself  and  undress  and  go  to  bed.  But  when  he 
thought  of  rising,  and  moving  to  pour  the  whiskey 
out,  he  shrank  from  that  effort  as  from  an  Herculean 
labor;  no  —  he  was  too  tired.  Then  his  mind  went 
back  to  the  friends  he  had  left  in  Chelsea  half  an 
hour  ago;  it  seemed  an  indefinably  long  time  ago, 
years  and  years  ago;  they  were  like  blurred  phan- 
toms, dimly  remembered  from  a  remote  past. 

Yes,  his  life  had  been  a  failure ;  total,  miserable, 
abject.  It  had  come  to  nothing;  its  harvest  was  a 
harvest  of  ashes.  If  it  had  been  a  useful  life,  he 
could  have  accepted  its  unhappiness ;  if  it  had  been 
a  happy  life,  he  could  have  forgiven  its  uselessness ; 
but  it  had  been  both  useless  and  unhappy.  He  had 
done  nothing  for  others,  he  had  won  nothing  for  him- 
self. Oh,  but  he  had  tried,  he  had  tried.  When  he 
had  left  Oxford,  people  expected  great  things  of  him ; 


A   BROKEN  LOOKING-GLASS.  63 

he  had  expected  great  things  of  himself.  He  was 
admitted  to  be  clever,  to  be  gifted ;  he  was  ambitious, 
he  was  in  earnest.  He  wished  to  make  a  name,  he 
wished  to  justify  his  existence  by  fruitful  work. 
And  he  had  worked  hard.  He  had  put  all  his  knowl- 
edge, all  his  talent,  all  his  energy  into  his  work ;  he 
had  not  spared  himself ;  he  had  passed  laborious  days 
and  studious  nights.  And  what  remained  to  show  for 
it  ?  Three  or  four  volumes  upon  Political  Economy, 
that  had  been  read  in  their  day  a  little,  discussed  a 
little,  and  then  quite  forgotten,  —  superseded  by  the 
books  of  newer  men.  "Pulped,  pulped,"  he  reflected 
bitterly.  Except  for  a  stray  dozen  of  copies  scattered 
here  and  there,  —  in  the  British  Museum,  in  his  Col- 
lege library,  on  his  own  bookshelves,  —  his  published 
writings  had  by  this  time  (he  could  hot  doubt)  met 
with  the  common  fate  of  unappreciated  literature,  and 
been  "pulped." 

"Pulped  —  pulped;  pulped  —  pulped."  The  hate- 
ful word  beat  rhythmically  again  and  again  in  his 
tired  brain  ;  and  for  a  little  while  that  was  all  he  was 
conscious  of. 

So  much  for  the  work  of  his  life.  And  for  the  rest  ? 
The  play  ?  The  living  ?  Oh,  he  had  nothing  to  recall 
but  failure.  It  had  sufficed  that  he  should  desire  a 
thing,  for  him  to  miss  it ;  that  he  should  set  his  heart 
upon  a  thing,  for  it  to  be  removed  beyond  the  sphere 
of  his  possible  acquisition.  It  had  been  so  from  the 
beginning ;  it  had  been  so  always.  He  sat  motionless 
as  a  stone,  and  allowed  his  thoughts  to  drift  listlessly 
hither  and  thither  in  the  current  of  memory.  Every- 
where they  encountered  wreckage,  derelicts ;  defeated 
aspirations,  broken  hopes.  Languidly  he  envisaged 


64  GRA  Y  ROSES. 

these.  He  was  too  tired  to  resent,  to  rebel.  He  even 
found  a  certain  sluggish  satisfaction  in  recognizing 
with  what  unvarying  harshness  destiny  had  treated 
him,  in  resigning  himself  to  the  unmerited. 

He  caught  sight  of  his  hand,  lying  flat  and  inert 
upon  the  brown  leather  arm  of  his  chair.  His  eyes 
rested  on  it,  and  for  the  moment  he  forgot  everything 
else  in  a  sort  of  torpid  study  of  it.  How  white  it 
was,  how  thin,  how  withered ;  the  nails  were  parched 
into  minute  corrugations;  the  veins  stood  out  like 
dark  wires;  the  skin  hung  loosely  on  it,  and  had  a 
dry  lustre :  an  old  man's  hand.  He  gazed  at  it 
fixedly,  till  his  eyes  closed  and  his  head  fell  forward. 
But  he  was  not  sleepy,  he  was  only  tired  and  weak. 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  start,  and  changed  his 
position.  He  felt  cold;  but  to  endure  the  cold  was 
easier  than  to  get  up  and  put  something  on,  or  go  to 
bed. 

How  silent  the  world  was  ;  how  empty  his  room. 
An  immense  feeling  of  solitude,  of  isolation,  fell  upon 
him.  He  was  quite  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  humanity 
here.  If  anything  should  happen  to  him,  if  he  should 
need  help  of  any  sort,  what  could  he  do  ?  Call  out  ? 
But  who  would  hear  ?  At  nine  in  the  morning  the 
porter's  wife  would  come  with  his  tea.  But  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  him  in  the  mean  time  ?  There 
would  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  till  nine  o'clock. 

Ah,  if  he  had  married,  if  he  had  had  children,  a 
wife,  a  home  of  his  own,  instead  of  these  desolate 
bachelor  chambers  ! 

If  he  had  married,  indeed !  It  was  his  sorrow's 
crown  of  sorrow  that  he  had  not  married,  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  marry,  that  the  girl  he  had  wished 


A   BROKEN  LOOKING-GLASS.  65 

to  marry  would  n't  have  him.  Failure  ?  Success  ? 
He  could  have  accounted  failure  in  other  things  a 
trifle,  he  could  have  laughed  at  what  the  world  calls 
failure,  if  Elinor  Lynd  had  been  his  wife.  But  that 
was  the  heart  of  his  misfortune,  she  would  n't  have 
him. 

He  had  met  her  for  the  first  time  when  he  was  a 
lad  of  twenty,  and  she  a  girl  of  eighteen.  He  could 
see  her  palpable  before  him  now  :  her  slender  girlish 
figure,  her  bright  eyes,  her  laughing  mouth,  her  warm 
brown  hair  curling  round  her  forehead.  Oh,  how  he 
had  loved  her.  For  twelve  years  he  had  waited  upon 
her,  wooed  her,  hoped  to  win  her.  But  she  had 
always  said,  "  No  —  I  don't  love  you.  I  am  very 
fond  of  you  ;  I  love  you  as  a  friend ;  we  all  love  you 
that  way,  —  my  mother,  my  father,  my  sisters.  But 
I  can't  marry  you."  However,  she  married  no  one 
else,  she  loved  no  one  else ;  and  for  twelve  years 
he  was  an  ever-welcome  guest  in  her  father's  house  ; 
and  she  would  talk  with  him,  play  to  him,  pity  him  ; 
and  he  could  hope.  Then  she  died.  He  called  one 
day,  and  they  said  she  was  ill.  After  that  there  came 
a  blank  in  his  memory,  —  a  gulf,  full  of  blackness  and 
redness,  anguish  and  confusion ;  and  then  a  sort  of 
dreadful  sudden  calm,  when  they  told  him  she  was 
dead. 

He  remembered  standing  in  her  room,  after  the 
funeral,  with  her  father,  her  mother,  her  sister  Eliza- 
beth. He  remembered  the  pale  daylight  that  filled 
it,  and  how  orderly  and  cold  and  forsaken  it  all 
looked.  And  there  was  her  bed,  the  bed  she  had  died 
in ;  and  there  her  dressing-table,  with  her  combs  and 
brushes;  and  there  her  writing-desk,  her  book-case. 

5 


66  GRAY  ROSES. 

He  remembered  a  row  of  medicine  bottles  on  the 
mantelpiece ;  he  remembered  the  fierce  anger,  the 
hatred  of  them,  as  if  they  were  animate,  that  had 
welled  up  in  his  heart  as  he  looked  at  them,  because 
they  had  failed  to  do  their  work. 

"  You  will  wish  to  have  something  that  was  hers, 
Richard,"  her  mother  said.  "  What  would  you 
like?" 

On  her  dressing-table  there  was  a  small  looking- 
glass,  in  an  ivory  frame.  He  asked  if  he  might  have 
that,  and  carried  it  away  with  him.  She  had  looked 
into  it  a  thousand  times,  no  doubt ;  she  had  done  her 
hair  in  it;  it  had  reflected  her,  enclosed  her,  con- 
tained her.  He  could  almost  persuade  himself  that 
something  of  her  must  remain  in  it.  To  own  it  was 
like  owning  something  of  herself.  He  carried  it 
home  with  him,  hugging  it  to  his  side  with  a  kind  of 
passion. 

He  had  prized  it,  he  prized  it  still,  as  his  dearest 
treasure,  the  looking-glass  in  which  her  face  had  been 
reflected  a  thousand  times  ;  the  glass  that  had  con- 
tained her,  known  her;  in  which  something  of  her- 
self, he  felt,  must  linger.  To  handle  it,  look  at  it, 
into  it,  behind  it,  was  like  holding  a  mystic  commu- 
nion with  her ;  it  gave  him  an  emotion  that  was 
infinitely  sweet  and  bitter,  a  pain  that  -was  dissolved 
in  joy. 

The  glass  lay  now,  folded  in  its  ivory  case,  on  the 
chimney-shelf  in  front  of  him.  That  was  its  place ; 
he  always  kept  it  on  his  chimney-shelf,  so  that  he 
could  see  it  whenever  he  glanced  round  his  room.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked  at  it ;  for  a  long 
time  his  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  it.  "  If  she  had 


A   BROKEN  LOOKING-GLASS.  67 

married  me,  she  would  n't  have  died.  My  love,  my 
care,  would  have  healed  her.  She  could  not  have 
died."  Monotonously,  automatically,  the  phrase  re- 
peated itself  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind,  while 
his  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  ivory  case  into  which 
her  looking-glass  was  folded.  It  was  an  effect  of  his 
fatigue,  no  doubt,  that  his  eyes,  once  directed  upon 
an  object,  were  slow  to  leave  it  for  another;  that  a 
phrase  once  pronounced  in  his  thought  had  this  tend- 
ency to  repeat  itself  over  and  over  again. 

But  at  last  he  roused  himself  a  little,  and,  leaning 
forward,  put  his  hand  out  and  up,  to  take  the  glass 
from  the  shelf.  He  wished  to  hold  it,  to  touch  it  and 
look  into  it.  As  he  lifted  it  towards  him,  it  fell  open, 
the  mirror  proper  being  fastened  to  a  leather  back, 
which  was  glued  to  the  ivory,  and  formed  a  hinge. 
It  fell  open  ;  and  his  grasp  had  been  insecure ;  and 
the  jerk  as  it  opened  was  enough.  It  slipped  from 
his  fingers,  and  dropped  with  a  crash  upon  the 
hearthstone. 

The  sound  went  through  him  like  a  physical  pain. 
He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and  closed  his  eyes.  His 
heart  was  beating  as  after  a  mighty  physical  exertion. 
He  knew  vaguely  that  a  calamity  had  befallen  him ; 
he  could  vaguely  imagine  the  splinters  of  shattered 
glass  at  his  feet.  But  histphysical  prostration  was  so 
great  as  to  obliterate,  to  neutralize,  emotion.  He  felt 
very  cold.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  hurried  along  with 
terrible  speed  through  darkness  and  cold  air.  There  was 
the  continuous  roar  of  rapid  motion  in  his  ears,  a  faint, 
dizzy  bewilderment  in  his  head.  He  felt  that  he  was 
trying  to  catch  hold  of  things,  to  stop  his  progress,  but 
his  hands  closed  upon  emptiness ;  that  he  was  trying  to 


68  GRAY  ROSES. 

call  out  for  help,  but  he  could  make  no  sound.  On  — 
on  —  on,  he  was  being  whirled  through  some  im- 
measurable abyss  of  space. 

"Ah,  yes,  he's  dead,  quite  dead,"  the  doctor  said. 
"  He  has  been  dead  some  hours.  He  must  have 
passed  away  peacefully,  sitting  here  in  his  chair." 

"Poor  gentleman,"  said  the  porter's  wife.  "And  a 
broken  looking-glass  beside  him.  Oh,  it's  a  sure  sign, 
a  broken  looking-glass." 


THE  REWARD   OF  VIRTUE. 


THE  REWARD   OF  VIRTUE. 

HE  was  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  Latin  Quarter, 
one  of  the  least  admirable.  He  haunted  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Michel,  hung  round  the  cafes,  begged  of  the 
passing  stranger,  picked  up  cigarette-ends,  and  would, 
at  a  pinch,  run  errands  or  do  odd  jobs. 

With  his  sallow,  wrinkled  skin,  his  jungle  of  gray 
beard,  his  thick  gray  hair,  matted  and  shiny,  covering 
his  ears  and  falling  about  his  shoulders,  he  was  scarcely 
an  attractive-looking  person.  Besides,  he  had  lost  an 
eye  ;  and  its  empty  socket  irresistibly  drew  your  gaze, 
—  an  abhorrent  vacuum.  His  clothes  would  be  the 
odds  and  ends  of  students'  off-casts,  in  the  last  stages 
of  disintegration.  He  had  a  chronic  stoop;  always 
aimed  his  surviving  eye  obliquely  at  you,  from  a  bent 
head ;  and  walked  with  a  sort  of  hangdog  shuffle  that 
seemed  a  general  self-denunciation. 

Where  he  slept,  whether  under  a  roof  or  on  the 
pavement,  and  when,  were  among  his  secrets.  No 
matter  how  late  or  how  early  you  were  abroad,  you 
would  be  sure  to  encounter  Bibi,  wide  awake,  some- 
where in  the  BouP  Miche,  between  the  Luxembourg 
and  the  Rue  des  Ecoles.  That  was  his  beat.  Perhaps 
one  of  the  benches  was  his  home. 

He  lived  in  a  state  of  approximate  intoxication. 
I  never  drew  near  to  him  without  getting  a  whiff  of 
alcohol,  yet  I  never  saw  him  radically  drunk.  His 
absorbent  capacity  must  have  been  tremendous.  It  is 


72  GRAY  ROSES. 

certain  he  spent  all  the  sous  he  could  collect  for 
liquids  (he  never  wasted  money  upon  food ;  he 
knew  where  to  go  for  crusts  of  bread  and  broken 
meat ;  the  back  doors  of  restaurants  have  their 
pensioners),  and  if  invited  to  drink  as  the  guest  of 
another,  he  would  drain  tumbler  after  tumbler  contin- 
uously, until  his  entertainer  stopped  him,  and  would 
appear  no  further  over-seas  at  the  end  than  at  the 
outset.  There  was  something  pathetic  in  his  com- 
parative sobriety,  like  an  unfulfilled  aspiration. 

He  was  one  of  the  institutions  of  the  Quarter,  one 
of  the  notabilities.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  (I  can't 
think  why)  to  be  on  term's  of  hail-fellowship  with 
him,  on  terms  to  thee-and-thou  him,  and  call  him  by 
his  nickname,  Bibi,  Bibi  Ragout :  a  sobriquet  that  he 
had  come  by  long  before  my  time,  and  whose  origin 
I  never  heard  explained.  It  seemed  sufficiently  dis- 
respectful, but  he  accepted  it  cheerfully,  and  would 
often,  indeed,  employ  it  in  place  of  the  personal  pro- 
noun in  referring  to  himself.  "You're  not  going 
to  forget  Bibi  —  you'll  not  forget  poor  old  Bibi 
Ragout  ?  "  would  be  his  greeting  on  the  jour  de  Pan, 
for  instance. 

I  have  said  that  he  would  run  errands  or  do  odd 
jobs.  The  business  with  which  people  charged  him 
was  not  commonly  of  a  nature  to  throw  lustre  upon 
either  agent  or  principal.  He  would  do  a  student's 
dirty  work,  even  an  etudiante's,  in  a  part  of  Paris 
where  work  to  be  accounted  dirty  must  needs  be  very 
dirty  work  indeed.  The  least  ignominious  service 
one  used  to  require  of  him  was  to  act  as  intermediary 
with  the  pawnshop,  the  clou :  a  service  that  he  per- 
formed to  the  great  satisfaction  of  his  clients,  for, 


THE  REWARD  OF   VIRTUE.  73 

what  with  unbounded  impudence  and  a  practice  of 
many  years,  he  knew  (as  the  French  slang  goes)  how 
to  make  the  nail  bleed.  We  trusted  him  with  our 
valuables  and  our  money,  though  it  was  of  record 
that  he  had  once  "  done  time "  for  theft.  But  his 
victim  had  been  a  bourgeois  from  across  the  river ; 
we  were  confident  he  would  deal  honorably  by  a 
fellow  Quarternion  —  he  had  the  esprit  de  corps. 

It  was  Bibi  in  his  social  aspect,  however,  not  in  his 
professional,  who  especially  interested  us.  It  was 
very  much  the  fashion  to  ask  him  to  join  the  company 
at  a  cafe  table,  to  offer  him  libations,  and  to  "  draw  " 
him,  —  make  him  talk.  He  would  talk  of  any  sub- 
ject :  of  art,  literature,  politics ;  of  life  and  morals ; 
of  the  news  of  the  day.  He  would  regale  us  with 
anecdotes  of  persons,  places,  events ;  he  had  outlasted 
many  generations  of  students,  and  had  hob-and-nobbed 
in  their  grub-period  with  men  who  had  since  become 
celebrities,  as  he  was  now  hob-and-nobbing  with 
us.  He  was  quite  shameless,  quite  without  reverence 
for  himself  or  others ;  his  conversation  was  apt  to  be 
highly  flavored,  scandalous,  slanderous,  and  redundant 
with  ambiguous  jests  ;  yet  —  what  made  it  fascinating 
and  tragical  —  it  was  unmistakably  the  conversation 
of  an  educated  man.-  His  voice  was  soft,  his  accent 
cultivated,  his  sentences  were  nicely  chiselled.  He 
knew  the  mot  juste,  the  happy  figure,  the  pat  allusion. 
His  touch  was  light;  his  address  could  be  almost 
courtly,  so  that,  on  suddenly  looking  up,  you  would 
feel  a  vague  surprise  to  behold  in  the  speaker,  not 
a  polished  man  of  the  world  in  his  dress-suit,  but 
this  beery  old  one-eyed  vagabond  in  tatters.  It  was 
strange  to  witness  his  transitions.  At  one  mo- 


74  GRAY  ROSES. 

ment  he  would  be  holding  high  discourse  of 
Goethe,  and  translating  illustrative  passages  into 
classic  French ;  at  the  next,  whining  about  la  deche, 
and  begging  for  a  petite  salete  de  vingt  sous,  in 
the  cant  of  the  Paris  gutters.  Or,  from  an  analysis 
of  the  character  of  some  conspicuous  personage  he 
had  known,  he  would  break  into  an  indecent  song, 
or  pass  to  an  interchange  of  mildewed  chaff  with 
Gigolette. 

Yes,  he  was  a  gentleman.  This  disreputable  old 
man,  whose  gray  hairs,  far  from  making  him  vener- 
able, but  emphasized  his  sodden  degradation ;  this 
tipsy,  filthy,  obscene  old  man ;  this  jail-bird,  this 
doer  of  dirty  work,  this  pander,  beggar,  outcast,  who 
bore  without  offence  such  a  title  of  contempt  as  Bibi 
Ragout,  was  a  fallen  gentleman,  the  wreck  of  some- 
thing that  had  once  been  noble. 

More  than  the  fragmentary  outline  of  his  history 
we  did  not  know.  We  knew  that  he  was  a  Russian  ; 
that  his  name  was  Kasghine ;  that  he  had  started  in 
life  as  an  officer  in  the  Russian  army;  that  many 
years  ago,  for  crimes  conjectural,  he  had  fled  his 
country  ;  and  that  long  before  our  day  he  had  already 
gravitated  to  where  we  found  him,  —  the  mud  of  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel. 

For  crimes  conjectural.  Some  of  us  believed  them 
to  have  been  political,  and  fancied  that  we  had  in  Bibi 
a  specimen  of  the  decayed  Nihilist.  In  view  of  the 
fact  that  he  often  proclaimed  himself  a  Socialist,  this 
seemed  to  bear  some  color  of  probability  ;  but  against 
it  argued  the  circumstance  that  of  the  members  of 
that  little  clan  of  Russian  refugees  which  inhabits  the 
southern  borderland  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  not  one 


THE  REWARD  OF   VIRTUE.  75 

would  have  aught  to  say  to  Bibi.  They  gave  him  the 
widest  of  wide  berths,  and  when  questioned  as  to 
their  motives,  would  only  shrug  their  shoulders,  and 
answer  that  he  was  a  disgraceful  old  person,  a  drunken 
reprobate,  whom,  the  wonder  was  not  that  they  avoided, 
but  that  any  decent  people  could  tolerate.  This 
sounded  plausible  ;  still,  we  felt  that  if  his  crimes  had 
been  political,  they  might  have  regarded  him  with 
more  indulgence. 

Of  Bibi  himself  it  was  equally  futile  to  inquire. 
There  was  one  subject  on  which  he  would  never  touch, 
—  his  previous  condition,  his  past,  before  he  came 
to  be  what  we  saw.  "  Yes,  I  am  a  gentleman.  I  am 
Captain  Kasghine.  I  am  a  gentleman  in  allotropic 
form ;  "  that  was  as  much  as  I  ever  heard  him  say. 
He  enjoyed  cloaking  himself  in  mystery,  he  enjoyed 
the  curiosity  it  drew  upon  him ;  but  perhaps  he  had 
some  remnants  of  pride,  some  embers  of  remorse, 
some  little  pain  and  shame,  as  well. 

Of  the  other  legends  afloat,  one  ran  to  the  effect 
that  he  had  murdered  his  wife ;  a  second,  that  he  had 
poisoned  the  husband  of  a  lady  friend;  a  third,  that 
he  had  shown  the  white  feather  in  battle ;  a  fourth, 
that  he  had  cheated  at  cards.  Bibi  would  neither 
admit  nor  deny  any  of  these  imputations,  nor  would 
he  manifest  the  faintest  resentment  when  they  were 
discussed  in  his  presence.  He  would  parry  them, 
smiling  complaisantly ;  and  (if  it  be  considered  that 
they  were  all,  as  it  turned  out,  abominably  false)  that 
seems  to  show  better  than  anything  else  to  what 
abysmal  depths  the  man  had  sunk.  Perhaps  it  shows 
also,  incidentally,  how  very  heartless  and  unimagina- 
tive young  people  in  the  Latin  Quarter  used  to  be.  I 


76  GRAY  ROSES. 

have  seen  Bibi  swagger ;  I  have  seen  him  sullen,  inso- 
lent, sarcastic ;  I  have  seen  him  angry,  I  have  heard 
him  swear  :  but  anything  like  honestly  indignant  I 
never  saw  him. 

I  remember  one  night  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Source, 
when  Fil  de  Fer  had  been  treating  him  to  brandy  and 
trying  to  get  him  to  tell  his  story ;  T  remember  his 
suddenly  turning  his  one  eye  in  the  direction  of  us 
men,  and  launching  himself  upon  a  long  flight  of  rhet- 
oric. I  can  see  him  still, — his  unwashed  red  hand 
toying  with  the  stem  of  his  liqueur-glass,  or  rising 
from  time  to  time  to  push  his  hair  from  his  forehead, 
over  which  it  dangled  in  soggy  wisps,  while,  in  a  din- 
ner-table tone  of  voice,  he  uttered  these  somewhat 
surprising  sentiments. 

"You  would  be  horrified,  you  others,  lads  of  twenty, 
with  your  careers  before  you,  —  you  would  be  horri- 
fied if  you  thought  it  possible  that  you  might  end 
your  days  like  Bibi,  would  you  not?  You  wish  to 
walk  a  clean  path,  to  prosper,  to  be  respectable,  to 
wear  sweet  linen,  to  die  honored,  regretted.  And  yet, 
believe  me,  we  poor  devils  who  fail,  who  fall,  who 
sink  to  the  bottom,  we  have  our  compensation.  We 
see  vastly  more  of  the  realities  of  life  than  those  do 
who  succeed  and  rise  to  the  top.  We  have  an  experi- 
ence that  is  more  essential,  more  significant.  We  get 
the  real  flavor  of  life.  We  sweat  in  the  mire;  we 
drink  the  lees.  But  the  truth  is  in  the  mire ;  the  real 
flavor  is  in  the  lees.  Oh,  we  have  our  compensation. 
We  wear  rags,  we  eat  scraps  fit  for  clogs,  we  sleep 
under  the  arches  of  bridges.  We  lie  in  jails,  we  are 
hustled  by  the  police,  we  are  despised  by  all  men. 
If  you  offer  us  drink,  and  stop  to  gossip  with  us  for 


THE  REWARD  OF  VIRTUE.  77 

a  moment,  you  only  do  so  to  please  yourselves  with 
the  spectacle  of  our  infamy,  our  infirmity,  our  incon- 
gruity. We  have  lost  all  hope,  all  self-respect.  We 
are  ships  that  have  come  to  grief,  that  are  foundering, 
that  will  presently  go  down.  Yet  we  are  not  alto- 
gether to  be  pitied:  we  know  life.  To  the  respectable 
man,  the  prosperous,  life  shows  herself  only  in  the 
world,  decently  attired :  we  know  her  at  home  in  her 
nudity.  For  him  she  has  manners,  a  good  behavior, 
a  society  smile ;  with  us  she  is  frankly  herself,  — 
brutal,  if  'you  please,  corrupt  with  disease  and  vice, 
sordid,  profane,  lascivious,  but  genuine.  She  is  kind 
to  him,  but  hypocritical,  affecting  scruples,  modesties, 
pieties,  a  heart  and  conscience,  attitudinizing,  blush- 
ing false  blushes,  weeping  crocodile  tears ;  she  is 
cruel  to  us,  but  sincere.  She  is  at  her  ease  with  us,  — 
unashamed.  She  shows  us  her  thousand  moods.  She 
does  n't  trouble  to  keep  her  secrets  from  us.  She 
throws  off  the  cloak  that  hid  her  foulness,  the  boot 
that  constrained  her  cloven  hoof.  She  gives  free  play 
to  her  appetites.  We  know  her. 

"  Here  is  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life,"  he  went  on, 
extending  his  open  hand.  "  The  respectable  man 
but  smells  its  rind ;  I  eat  deep,  taste  the  core.  The 
smell  is  sweet,  perhaps ;  the  taste  is  deathly  bitter. 
But  even  so  ?  He  that  eats  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  life  shares  the  vision  of  the  gods.  He  gazes  upon 
the  naked  face  of  truth.  I  don't  pretend  that  the 
face  of  truth  is  beautiful.  It  is  hideous  beyond  im- 
agination. All  hate,  all  savagery,  all  evil,  glare  from 
it,  and  all  uncleanness  is  upon  it.  But  it  is  the  face 
of  truth  ;  the  sight  of  it  gives  an  ultimate,  a  supreme 
satisfaction." 


78  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  Say  what  you  will,  at  the  end  of  life  the  impor- 
tant thing  is  to  have  livect.  Well,  when  all  is  over, 
and  the  prosperous  man  and  I  lie  equal  in  the  article 
of  death,  our  fortunes,  conditions,  outlooks  at  last  for 
once  the  same,  our  results  the  same,  I  shall  have 
lived,  I  shall  have  seen,  I  shall  have  understood,  a 
thousandfold  more  than  he.  I  shall  have  known 
life  in  her  intimacy;  he  will  have  had  but  a  polite 
acquaintance  with  her." 

The  hour  for  Bibi  to  put  this  philosophy  to  the 
test  was  nearer  than  he  suspected.  He  used  to  de- 
scribe himself  as  "  thoroughly  cured  and  seasoned," 
and  to  predict  that  he  would  "  last  a  good  while  yet." 
But,  one  day  in  December,  a  subject  of  remark  in  the 
Boul'  Miche  was  Bibi's  absence ;  and  before  nightfall 
the  news  went  abroad  that  he  had  been  found  on  the 
turf,  under  a  tree,  in  the  Avenue  de  PObservatoire, 
dead  from  a  coup  de  sang,  and  that  he  was  now 
lying  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  the  curious  in  the  little 
brick  house  behind  Notre  Dame. 

A  meeting  of  students  was  called,  at  which  it  was 
resolved  to  give  Bibi  a  decent  funeral ;  and  in  order 
that  his  friends  who  had  crossed  the  river  might  have 
an  opportunity  of  assisting  at  it,  a  lettre  de  faire  part 
was  published  in  the  newspapers.  The  Committee 
who  had  these  matters  in  charge  made  an  attempt  to 
get  a  Pope  from  the  Russian  Church  to  officiate  ;  but 
the  holy  men  were  scandalized  by  the  request,  and 
refused  it  with  contumely.  So  a  civil  funeral  was 
the  best  that  could  be  achieved. 

On  a  drizzling,  dismal  December  morning,  then,  we 
formed  ourselves  in  a  procession  of  two  abreast,  and, 
starting  from  the  Place  St.  Michel,  followed  Bibi  up 


THE  REWARD  OF   VIRTUE.  79 

his  familiar  Boulevard  to  the  Cemetery  of  Montpar- 
nasse  ;  and  men  who  would  have  spurned  him  yester- 
day, bared  their  heads  as  he  passed,  and  women 
crossed  themselves  and  muttered  prayers.  We  must 
have  been  about  a  hundred  strong,  and  quite  a  quarter 
of  our  numbers  came  from  beyond  the  bridges,  re- 
sponsive to  our  lettre  de  faire  part.  A  student  was 
told  off  to  march  with  each  visitor;  and  this  arrange- 
ment proved  the  means  of  my  being  able  to  supply 
the  missing  chapter  of  Bibi's  story. 

The  person  to  whom  I  found  myself  assigned 
was  an  elderly,  military-looking  man,  with  the  red 
rosette  in  his  button-hole ;  extremely  well  dressed 
and  groomed ;  erect,  ruddy,  bright-eyed  ;  with  close- 
cropped  white  hair,  and  a  drooping  white  moustache  : 
the  picture  of  a  distinguished,  contented,  fine  old 
French  gentleman,  whom  I  marvelled  a  good  deal 
to  see  in  this  conjunction. 

On  our  way  to  the  graveyard  we  spoke  but  little. 
Our  business  there  over,  however,  he  offered  me  a 
seat  in  his  carriage,  a  brougham  that  had  sauntered 
after  us,  for  the  return.  And  no  sooner  was  the 
carriage  door  closed  upon  us  than  he  began :  — 

"I  am  an  old  man.  I  want  to  talk.  Will  you 
listen  ? 

"  This  death,  this  funeral,  have  stirred  me  deeply. 
I  knew  Kasghine  years  ago  in  Russia,  when  we  were 
both  young  men,  he  an  officer  in  the  Kussian  army, 
I  an  attache  to  the  French  Embassy. 

"  His  career  has  been  a  very  sad  one.  It  illustrates 
many  sad  truths. 

"  Sometimes  —  it  is  trite  to  say  so  —  an  act  of 
baseness,  a  crime  of  some  sort,  may  be  the  beginning, 


80  GRAY  ROSES. 

the  first  cause,  of  a  man's  salvation.  It  pulls  him 
up,  wakes  his  conscience.  Aghast  at  what  he  has 
done,  he  reflects,  repents,  reforms.  That  is  a  com- 
forting circumstance,  a  token  of  God's  goodness. 

"But  what  shall  we  say  when  the  exact  opposite 
happens?  When  it  is  an  act  of  nobility,  of  splendid 
heroism,  of  magnificent  self-devotion,  that  brings 
to  pass  a  man's  moral  downfall  ?  It  is  horrible  to 
admit  such  a  thing  as  possible,  is  it  not  ?  And  yet, 
the  same  man  who  may  be  capable  of  one  sudden 
immense  act  of  heroism,  may  be  quite  incapable  of 
keeping  up  the  prolonged,  daily,  yearly  struggle  with 
adversity  which  that  act  may  entail  upon  him. 

"It  was  so  with  Kasghine;  it  was  a  very  noble 
action  which  drove  him,  an  exile,  from  his  country. 
Thrown  upon  the  streets  of  Paris,  without  friends, 
without  money,  he  had  not  the  stuff  in  him  to  stand 
up  against  the  forces  that  were  in  operation  to  drag 
him  down.  Which  of  us  can  be  sure  that  he  would 
have  that  stuff  ?  .From  begging  for  work,  whereby 
to  earn  money,  Kasghine  fell  to  begging  for  money 
itself.  His  pride,  receiving  a  thousand  wounds, 
instead  of  being  strengthened  by  them,  was  killed. 
Cleanliness  is  a  luxury,  a  labor;  he  began  to  neglect 
his  person;  and,  in  the  case  of  a  gentleman,  neglect 
of  the  person  is  generally  the  first  step  towards 
neglect  of  the  spirit.  Little  by  little  he  lost  his 
civilized  character,  and  reverted  to  the  primitive 
beast ;  he  was  feral. 

"But  thirty,  thirty -five  years  ago,  there  were  few 
young  men  in  St.  Petersburg  with  better  positions, 
brighter  prospects,  than  Kasghine's.  He  belonged 
to  an  excellent  family;  he  was  intelligent,  good- 


THE  REWARD   OF  VIRTUE.  81 

looking,  popular;  he  was  a  captain  in  a  good  regi- 
ment. One  of  his  uncles  had  been  minister  of  war, 
and  stood  high  in  the  favor  of  the  Tsar. 

"In  the  spring  of  1847,  Kasghine's  regiment  was 
ordered  to  Warsaw,  and  garrisoned  in  the  fortress 
there.  Twenty  Polish  patriots  were  confined  in  the 
casemates,  awaiting  execution:  men  of  education, 
honorable  men,  men  with  wives  and  children,  con- 
demned to  be  hanged  because  they  had  conspired 
together  —  a  foolish,  ineffectual  conspiracy  —  against 
what  they  regarded  as  the  tyranny  of  Russia,  for  the 
liberty  of  their  country.  They  had  struck  no  blow, 
but  they  had  written  and  talked;  and  they  were  to 
be  hanged. 

"The  fate  of  these  men  seemed  to  Kasghine  very 
unjust,  very  inhuman.  It  preyed  upon  his  mind. 
He  took  it  into  his  head  to  rescue  them,  to  contrive 
their  escape.  I  do  not  say  that  this  was  wise  or 
right;  but  it  was  certainly  generous.  No  doubt  he 
had  a  period  of  hesitation.  On  the  one  hand  was  his 
consigne  as  a  Russian  soldier;  on  the  other,  what  he 
conceived  to  be  his  duty  as  a  man.  He  knew  that 
the  act  he  contemplated  spelt  ruin  for  himself,  that 
it  spelt  death ;  and  he  had  every  reason  to  hold  life 
sweet. 

"However,  he  opened  communications  with  the 
prisoners  in  the  casemates,  and  with  their  friends  in 
the  town.  And  one  night  he  got  them  all  safely  out, 
—  by  daybreak  they  were  secure  in  hiding.  Kasghine 
himself  remained  behind.  Some  one  would  have  to 
be  punished.  If  the  guilty  man  fled,  an  innocent 
man  would  be  punished. 

"Well,  he  was  tried  by  court-martial,   and   sen- 

6 


82  GRAY  ROSES. 

tenced  to  be  shot.  But  the  Emperor,  out  of  con- 
sideration for  Kasghine's  family,  commuted  the 
sentence  to  one  of  hard  labor  for  life  in  the  mines 
of  Kara, — a  cruel  kindness.  After  eight  years  in 
the  mines,  with  blunted  faculties,  broken  health,  dis- 
figured by  the  loss  of  an  eye,  and  already  no  doubt 
in  some  measure  demoralized  by  the  hardships  he 
had  suffered,  he  was  pardoned,  — another  cruel  kind- 
ness. He  was  pardoned  on  condition  that  he  would 
leave  Kussian  territory  and  never  enter  it  again. 
There  are  periodic  wholesale  pardonings,  you  know, 
at  Kara,  to  clear  the  prisons  and  make  rooom  for 
fresh  convicts. 

"Kasghine's  private  fortune  had  been  confiscated; 
his  family  had  ceased  all  relations  with  him,  and 
would  do  nothing  for  him.  He  came  to  Paris,  and 
had  to  engage  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  —  a 
struggle  with  which  he  was  totally  unfamiliar,  for 
which  he  was  totally  unequipped.  The  only  profes- 
sion he  knew  was  soldiering.  He  tried  to  obtain  a 
commission  in  the  French  army.  International  con- 
siderations, if  no  others,  put  that  out  of  the  question. 
He  tried  to  get  work, — teaching,  translating.  He 
was  not  a  good  teacher;  his  translations  did  not 
please  his  employers.  Remember,  his  health  was 
enfeebled,  he  was  disfigured  by  the  loss  of  an  eye; 
he  had  spent  eight  years  in  the  mines  at  Kara.  He 
began  to  sink.  Let  those  blame  him  who  know  how 
hard  it  is  to  swim.  From  borrowing,  from  begging, 
he  sank  to  I  dare  not  guess  what.  I  am  afraid  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  for  a  while  he  served  the  Kussian 
secret  police  as  a  spy ;  but  he  proved  an  unremunera- 
tive  spy;  they  turned  him  off.  He  took  to  drink,  he 


THE  REWARD   OF   VIRTUE.  83 

sank  lower  and  lower,  he  became  whatever  is  lowest. 
I  had  not  seen  him  or  heard  of  him  for  years,  when, 
yesterday,  I  read  the  announcement  of  his  death  in 
the  'Figaro/" 

The  old  man  set  me  down  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue 
Racine.  I  have  never  met  him  again ;  I  have  never 
learned  who  he  was. 

The  other  day,  being  in  Paris,  I  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  Cemetery  of  Montparuasse,  to  look  at  Bibi's 
grave.  The  wooden  cross  we  had  erected  over  it  was 
pied  with  weather-stains,  the  inscription  more  than 
half  obliterated,  — 


ALEXIS   DIMITKIEVITCH  KASGHINE, 

N e  a  Moscou,  le  20  JANVIER,  1823, 
Mort  a  PARIS,  le  20  DECEMBRE,  1884. 
Priez  pour  lui. 


A  KE-INCARNATION. 


A  RE-INCARNATION. 

WE  were,  according  to  our  nightly  habit,  in  posses- 
sion of  the  Cafe  des  Souris,  —  dear  Cafe  des  Souris, 
that  is  no  more  ;  and  our  assiduous  patronage  rumor 
alleges  to  have  been  the  death  of  it,  —  we  were  in 
possession  of  the  Cafe  des  Souris,  a  score  or  so  of 
us,  chiefly  English  speakers,  and  all  votaries  of  one 
or  other  of  the  "  quatre-z-arts ,"  when  the  door  swung 
open,  and  he  entered. 

Now,  the  entrance  of  anybody  not  a  member  of 
our  particular  cenacle  into  the  Cafe  des  Souris,  we, 
who  felt  (I  don't  know  why)  that  we  had  proprietary 
rights  in  the  establishment,  could  not  help  deeming 
somewhat  in  the  nature  of  an  unwarranted  intrusion ; 
so  we  stopped  our  talk  for  an  instant,  and  stared  at 
him,  —  a  man  of  medium  stature,  heavily  built,  with 
hair  that  fell  to  his  shoulders,  escaping  from  beneath 
a  broad-brimmed,  soft  felt  hat,  knee  breeches  like  a 
bicyclist's,  and,  in  lieu  of  overcoat,  a  sort  of  doublet, 
or  magnified  cape,  of  buff-colored  cloth. 

He  supported  our  examination,  and  the  accom- 
panying interval  of  silence,  which  ordinary  flesh  and 
blood  might  have  found  embarrassing,  with  more  than 
composure,  —  with,  it  seemed  to  me,  a  dimly  per- 
ceptible subcutaneous  smile,  as  of  satisfaction, — 
and  seated  himself  at  the  only  vacant  table.  This 
world  held  nothing  human  worthy  to  rivet  our  atten- 
tion longer  than  thirty  seconds,  whence,  very  soon, 


88  GRAY  ROSES. 

we  were  hot  in  debate  again.  It  was  the  first  Sunday 
in  May;  I  *need  hardly  add  that  our  subject-matter 
was  the  Vernissage,  at  which  the  greater  number  of 
us  had  assisted. 

For  myself,  however,  I  could  not  forbid  my  gaze 
to  wander  back  from  time  to  time  upon  the  stranger, 
—  an  indulgence  touching  which  I  felt  the  less  com- 
punction, in  that  he  had  (it  was  a  fair  inference)  got 
himself  up  with  a  deliberate  view  to  attracting  just 
such  notice.  Else,  why  the  sombrero  and  knicker- 
bockers, the  flowing  locks  and  eccentric  yellow  cloak  ? 
Nay,  I  think  it  may  have  been  in  part  this  very  note 
of  undisguised  vanity  in  the  man  that  made  it  diffi- 
cult to  keep  one's  eyes  off  him:  it  tickled  the  sense 
of  humor,  and  challenged  the  curiosity.  What  would 
his  state  of  mind  be,  who,  in  the  dotage  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  went  laboriously  out  of  his  way 
to  cultivate  a  fragmentary  resemblance  to  —  say  a 
spurious  Vandyke? 

As  the  heat  of  the  room  began  to  tell  upon  him, 
he  threw  aside  his  outer  garment,  and  hung  up  his 
hat,  thereby  discovering  a  velvet  jacket  and  a  very 
low-cut  shirt,  with  unstarched  rolling  collar,  and 
sailor's  knot  of  pale  green  Liberty  silk.  His  long 
hair,  of  a  faded,  dusty  brown,  was  brushed  straight 
back  from  his  forehead,  and  plastered  down  upon  his 
scalp,  in  such  wise  as  to  lend  him  a  misleading  effect 
of  baldness.  He  wore  a  drooping  brown  moustache, 
and  a  lustreless  brown  beard,  trimmed  to  an  Eliza- 
bethan point.  His  skin  was  sallow;  his  eyes  were 
big,  wide  apart,  of  an  untransparent  buttony  bril- 
liancy, and  in  color  dully  blue.  Taken  for  all  in  all, 
his  face,  deprived  of  the  adventitious  aids  of  long 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  89 

hair  and  Elizabethan  beard,  would  have  been  pecu- 
liarly spiritless  and  insignificant;  but  from  the  com- 
placency that  shone  like  an  unguent  in  every  line  of 
it,  as  well  as  from  the  studied  picturesqueness  of  his 
costume,  it  was  manifest  that  he  posed  as  a  unique 
and  interesting  character,  a  being  mysterious  and 
romantic,  melancholy  and  rarely  gifted, — like  the 
artist  in  a  bad  play. 

Artist,  indeed,  of  some  description,  I  told  myself, 
he  must  infallibly  be  reckoned.  What  mere  profes- 
sional man  or  merchant  would  have  the  heart  to 
render  his  person  thus  conspicuous  ?  And  the  hypo- 
thesis that  might  have  disposed  of  him  as  a  model 
was  excluded  by  the  freshness  of  his  clothes.  A 
poet,  painter,  sculptor,  possibly  an  actor  or  musician , 
—  anyhow,  something  to  which  the  generic  name  of 
artist,  soiled  with  all  ignoble  use,  could  more  or  less 
flatteringly  be  applied, — I  made  sure  he  was;  an 
ornament  of  our  own  English-speaking  race,  more- 
over, proclaimed  such  by  the  light  of  intelligence 
that  played  upon  his  features  as  he  followed  our 
noisy  conversation;  and,  at  a  guess,  two  or  three 
and  thirty  years  of  age. 

"  Anybody  know  the  duffer  with  the  hair  ?  " 

This  question,  started  by  Charles  K.  Smith:  of 
Battle  Creek,  Michigan,  U.S.A.,  and  commonly  called 
in  the  Latin  Quarter  by  his  sobriquet  of  Chalks^  went 
our  rounds  in  an  undertone;  and  everybody  answered, 
"No." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Can  it  talk?  'Pears  like  it  can  hear 
and  catch  on,"  was  Chalks 's  next  remark.  "Shall 
we  work  the  growler  on  it  ?  " 

The    process    termed    by    Chalks    "working    the 


90  GRAY  ROSES. 

growler  "  was  of  ancient  institution  in  the  Cafe  des 
Souris;  and  I  believe  it  is  not  unknown  in  other 
seats  of  learning,  —  a  custom  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation  of  students,  which,  like 
politeness,  costing  little,  yields  generous  returns. 
Should  a  casual  wayfarer,  happening  amongst  us, 
so  far  transgress  the  usages  of  good  society  as  to 
volunteer  a  contribution  to  our  talk,  without  the  pre- 
liminary of  an  introduction,  it  was  the  rule  instantly 
to  require  him  to  offer  the  company  refreshments; 
and,  T  am  sorry  to  have  to  add,  not  infrequently, 
being  thirsty,  and  possessing  a  lively  appreciation  of 
the  value  of  our  own  money,  we  would,  by  a  marked 
affability  of  bearing,  by  smiles,  nods,  glances  of 
sympathetic  understanding,  or  what  not,  designedly 
encourage  such  an  one  to  address  us,  and  so  render 
himself  liable  to  our  impost. 

"If  we  don't,"  continued  Chalks,  "it  will  be  to 
fly  in  the  face  of  Providence.  The  man  is  simply 
bursting  to  fire  his  mouth  off;  he  's  had  something  to 
say  swelling  in  him  for  the  last  half-hour.  It  will 
be  an  act  of  Christian  mercy  to  let  him  say  it.  And 
for  myself,  I  confess  I  'm  rather  dry." 

Chalks  doubtless  argued  from  the  eager  eye  with 
which  the  man  regarded  us  ;  from  the  uneasy  way  in 
which  he  held  his  seat,  shifting  in  it,  and  edging 
in  our  direction  ;  and  from  the  tentative  manner  in 
which  he  occasionally  coughed. 

Now,  persuaded  by  the  American,  we  one  by  one 
fell  silent,  to  give  our  victim  his  opportunity ;  whilst 
those  nearest  to  him  baited  the  trap  by  looking  inquir- 
ingly at  his  face. 

It  was  all  he  needed. 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  91 

"  I  beg  your  pardon/*'  he  began,  with  no  symptom 
of  diffidence,  "  but  I  too  was  at  the  Vernissage  to-day, 
and  some  of  your  comments  upon  it  have  surprised 
me."  He  spoke  with  a  staccato  north-country  accent, 
in  a  chirpy,  querulous  little  voice ;  and  each  syllable 
seemed  to  chop  the  air,  like  a  blow  from  a  small 
hatchet.  "  Am  I  to  take  it  that  you  are  serious  when 
you  condemn  Bouguereau's  great  picture  as  a  croute  ? 
1  Croute,'  if  I  mistake  not,  is  equivalent  to  the  Eng- 
lish daub ?  " 

Our  one-armed  waiter,  Pierre,  had  but  awaited  this 
crisis  to  come  forward  and  receive  our  orders.  When 
they  were  delivered,  Chalks  courteously  explained  the 
situation  to  the  neophyte,  adding  that,  as  a  further 
formality,  he  must  make  us  acquainted  with  his  name 
and  occupation. 

He  accepted  it  in  perfectly  good  part.  "I'm  sure 
I  shall  feel  honored  if  you  will  drink  with  me,"  he 
said,  and  settled  the  reckoning  with  Pierre. 

"  Name  ?  Name  ?  "  a  dozen  of  us  cried,  in  scatter- 
ing chorus. 

"  I  had  thought  that,  among  so  many  Englishmen 
and  Americans,  some  one  would  have  recognized  me," 
he  replied.  "  I  am  Davis  Blake." 

He  said  it  as  one  might  say,  "  I  am  Mr.  Gladstone  " 
—  or  Lord  Salisbury  —  or  Bismarck  —  with  dignity, 
with  an  inflection  of  conscious  greatness,  it  is  true, 
but  with  neither  haughtiness  nor  ostentation.  We, 
however,  are  singularly  ignorant  of  contemporary 
English  literature  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  —  our  chief 
reading  matter,  indeed,  being  Maupassant  and  "  Le 
Petit  Journal  pour  Eire  ;  "  and  though,  as  we  shortly 
learned,  here  was  a  writer  whose  works  were  for  sale 


92  (ill AY  ROSES. 

at  every  bookstall  in  the  United  Kingdom,  lavishly 
pirated  in  the  United  States,  and  distributed  far 
and  wide  by  Baron  Tauchnitz  on  the  Continent,  his 
announcement  left  us  unenlightened. 

"Painter  ?  "  demanded  Chalks. 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face.  "  You  are  surely  famil- 
iar with  my  name  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  it  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Chalks  ; 
then,  raising  his  voice,  "  Any  gentleman  present  ever 
heard  of — what  did  you  say  your  name  was?"  he 
asked  in  an  aside  ;  and,  being  informed,  went  on,  uof 
Mr.  Davis  Blake  ?  " 

No  one  spoke. 

«  Mud  ?  "  queried  Chalks. 

"  Mud  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Blake,  perplexed. 

"  He  means  to  inquire  whether  you  are  a  sculptor," 
ventured  I. 

"A  sculptor, — certainly  not."  He  spoke  sharply, 
throwing  back  his  head.  "  It  is  impossible  that  no 
one  here  should  have  heard  of  me ;  and  this  pretence 
of  ignorance  is  meant  as  a  practical  joke.  I  am  a 
novelist,  —  one  of  the  best-known  novelists  living.  I 
am  Davis  Blake,  the  author  of  '  Crispin  Dorr/  and 
'The  Card-Dealer.'  My  portrait,  with  a  short  bio- 
graphical sketch,  appeared  in  the  '  Illustrated  Gazette ' 
not  a  month  ago.  My  works  have  been  translated 
into  French,  German,  Kussian,  and  Italian.  Of  '  The 
Card-Dealer,'  upwards  of  thirty  thousand  copies  have 
been  sold  in  Great  Britain  alone." 

"Ah,  then  you  could  well  afford  to  stand  us  drinks," 
was  Chalks's  cheerful  commentary.  "  We  ain't  much 
on  book-learning,  this  side  the  river,  Mr.  Blake. 
We  're  plain,  blunt  men,  that  ain't  ashamed  of  manual 


A    RE-INCARNATION.  93 

labor,  —  horny -handed  sons  of  toil,  in  short.  But 
we  7re  proud  to  meet  a  cultivated  gentleman  like  your- 
self, all  the  same,  and  can  appreciate  him  when  met." 

Blake  laughed  rather  lamely,  and  responded,  "  I 
perceive  that  you  are  a  humorist.  Your  countrymen 
are  great  admirers  of  my  writings  ;  of  '  Crispin  Dorr/ 
I  am  told,  there  are  no  fewer  than  three  rival  editions 
in  the  market ;  and  I  have  received  complimentary 
letters  and  requests  for  iny  autograph,  from  all  parts 
of  the  United  States.  I  think  that  the  quality  of 
American  humor  has  been  overrated ;  but  I  can  for- 
give a  jest  at  my  own  expense,  provided  it  be  not 
meant  in  malice.'* 

"Every  novice  in  our  order,  sir,"  said  Chalks, 
"  must  approve  his  mettle  by  undergoing  something 
in  the  nature  of  an  initiatory  ordeal.  We  may  now 
drop  foolery,  and  converse  like  intelligent  human 
beings.  You  were  asking  our  opinion  of  Willy's 
daub  —  " 

"  Willy  ?  "  questioned  Blake. 

"  Ay  —  Bouguereau.  Is  n't  his  front  name  Wil- 
liam ?  "  And  Chalks,  speaking  as  it  were  ex  cathedra, 
made  very  short  work  indeed  of  Monsieur  Bougue- 
reau's  claims  to  rank  as  a  painter.  Blake  listened 
with  open-eyed  wonder.  But  we  are  difficult  critics, 
we  of  the  Paris  art  schools,  between  the  ages  of 
twenty  and  twenty-five ;  cold,  cynical,  suspicious  as 
any  Old  Bailey  judge;  and  rare  is  the  man  whose 
work  can  sustain  our  notice,  and  get  off  with  lighter 
censure  than  "croute"  or  "plat  d'epinards."  We 
grow  more  lenient,  however,  as  we  advance  in  years. 
Already,  at  thirty,  we  begin  to  detect  signs  of  promise 
in  other  canvases  than  our  own.  At  forty,  conceiv- 


94  GRAY  ROSES. 

ably,  we  shall  even  admit  a  certain  degree  of  actual 
merit. 

By  and  by  Chalks,  having  concluded  his  pronounce- 
ment, and  drifted  to  another  corner  of  the  room,  Blake 
and  I  fell  into  separate  talk. 

"I  must  count  it  a  piece  of  exceptional  good  for- 
tune," he  informed  me,  "  to  have  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  your  little  coterie  this  evening.  I  am  on  the 
point  of  writing  a  novel,  in  which  it  will  be  necessary 
that  my  hero  should  pass  several  years  as  a  student 
in  the  Latin  Quarter ;  and  I  have  run  over  from  Lon- 
don for  the  especial  purpose  of  collecting  local  color. 
No  doubt  you  will  be  able  to  help  me  with  a  hint  or 
two  as  to  the  best  mode  of  setting  about  it." 

"  I  can  think  of  none  better  than  to  come  here  and 
live  for  a  while,"  said  I. 

"I  only  arrived  last  night,  and  I  put  up  at  the 
Grand  Hotel.  But  it  was  quite  my  intention  to  move 
across  the  river  directly  I  could  find  suitable  lodgings. 
Do  you  know  of  any  that  you  could  recommend  ?  " 

"  If  you  want  to  see  student  life  par  excellence,  you 
can  scarcely  improve  upon  the  shop  I  'm  in  myself,  — 
the  Hotel  du  Saint-Esprit,  in  the  Kue  St.  Jacques." 

And  after  he  had  examined  me  in  some  detail 
touching  that  house  of  entertainment,  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  then,  if  you  will  bespeak  a  room  for  me  there,  I  '11 
come  to-morrow  and  stop  for  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"A  week  or  ten  days  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  I  can't  spare  more  than  a  fortnight.  I  must  be 
back  in  town  by  the  20th." 

"  But  what  can  you  hope  to  learn  of  Latin  Quarter 
customs  in  a  fortnight  ?  One  ought  to  live  here  for  a 
year,  at  the  very  least,  before  attempting  to  write  us 
up." 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  95 

"Ah,"  he  rejoined,  shaking  his  head  and  gazing 
dreamily  at  something  invisible  beyond  the  smoky 
atmosphere  of  the  cafe,  "  a  man  with  dramatic  insight 
can  learn  as  much  in  a  fortnight  as  an  ordinary  person 
in  half  a  lifetime.  Intuition  and  inspiration  take  the 
place  of  the  note-book  and  the  yard-stick.  The  author 
of  *  The  Merchant  of  Venice  '  had  never  visited  Italy. 
In  •'  Crispin  Dorr '  I  have  described  a  tempest  and 
a  shipwreck  at  which  old  sailors  shudder ;  and  iny 
longest  voyage  has  been  from  Holyhead  to  Kings- 
town. Besides,"  he  added,  with  a  bow  and  smile, 
"for  the  Latin  Quarter,  if  you  will  take  me  under 
your  protection,  I  shall,  I  am  sure,  benefit  by  the 
services  of  a  capital  cicerone." 

And  the  next  afternoon  he  arrived.  1  met  him  at 
the  threshold  of  the  hotel,  introduced  him  to  our  land- 
lady, Madame  Pamparagoux  (who  stared  rather  wildly, 
not  being  accustomed  to  see  her  lodgers  so  mediaevally 
attired),  and  showed  him  upstairs  to  the  room  I  had 
engaged. 

There  he  invited  me  to  be  seated  while  he  unpacked 
his  portmanteau  and  put  his  things  in  order.  These, 
I  noticed,  were  un-Britishly  few  and  simple.  I  could 
discern  no  vestiges  of  either  sponge  or  tub.  As  he 
moved  backwards  and  forwards  between  his  chest  of 
drawers  and  dressing-table,  he  would  cast  frequent 
affectionate  glances  at  his  double,  now  in  the  glass  of 
the  armoire,  now  in  that  above  the  chimney.  He  was 
favoring  me  meantime  with  a  running  monologue  of 
an  autobiographical  complexion. 

"  I  am  a  self-educated  man.  My  father  was  a  wine 
merchant  in  Leeds.  At  sixteen  he  put  me  to  serve 
in  the  shop  of  a  cousin,  a  print-seller.  It  was  there, 


96  GRAY  ROSES. 

I  think,  that  my  literary  instincts  awoke.  I  contrib- 
uted occasional  art  notes  to  a  local  paper.  At  twenty 
I  came  up  to  London  and  began  my  definite  career,  as 
a  reporter.  I  was  soon  earning  thirty  shillings  a 
week,  which  seemed  to  me  magnificent.  But  I  aspired 
to  higher  things.  I  felt  within  me  the  stirrings  of 
what  I  could  not  help  believing  to  be  genius,  —  true 
genius.  I  longed  to  distinguish  myself,  to  emerge 
from  the  crowd,  from  the  background,  to  make  myself 
remarked,  to  do  something,  to  be  somebody,  to  see  my 
name  a  famous  one.  I  was  fortunate  enough  at  this 

epoch  to  attract  the  notice  of  X ,  the  poet.     He 

believed  in  me,  and  encouraged  me  to  believe  in  my- 
self. It  is  one  of  the  regrets  of  my  life  that  he  died 
before  I  had  achieved  my  celebrity.  However,  I  have 
achieved  it.  My  name  is  a  household  word  wherever 
the  English  language  is  read.  I  have  written  the 
only  novels  of  my  time  that  are  sure  to  live.  They 
will  live,  not  only  by  virtue  of  their  style  and  matter, 
but  because  of  a  quality  they  possess  which  I  must 
call  universal,  —  a  quality  which  appeals  with  equal 
force  to  readers  of  every  rank,  and  which  will  procure 
for  them  as  wide  a  popularity  five  hundred  years 
hence  as  they  enjoy  to-day.  I  call  them  novels,  but 
they  are  really  prose-poems.  The  novel,"  he  con- 
tinued, rising  for  an  instant  to  impersonal  heights, 
"the  novel  is  the  literary  form  or  expression  of  my 
period,  as  the  drama  was  that  of  Shakespeare's,  the 
epic  of  Homer's.  Do  you  follow  me  ?  Ah,  here  is  a 
copy  of  '  Crispin  Dorr '  —  here  is  '  The  Card-Dealer.' 
Take  them  and  read  them,  and  return  them  when  you 
have  finished.  Being  author's  copies,  they  possess 
an  exceptional  value.  This  is  my  autograph  upon  the 


A  RE-INCARNATION.  97 

fly-leaf.  This  is  a  photograph  of  my  wife.  She  is  a 
good  woman,  but  has  no  great  literary  culture,  and  we 
are  not  so  happy  together  as  I  could  wish.  Men  of 
commanding  parts  seldom  make  good  husbands,  and 
I  committed  the  imprudence  of  marrying  very  young. 
My  wife,  you  see,  belongs  to  that  class  of  society  from 
which  I  have  risen.  I  am  the  son  of  a  wine  merchant, 
yet  I  dine  with  peers,  and  have  been  favored  with 
smiles  from  peeresses.  My  wife  has  not  kept  pace 
with  me.  This  is  my  little  girl,  —  our  only  child, — 
my  daughter  Judith.  Here  is  the  'Illustrated  Ga- 
zette,' with  the  portrait  of  myself." 

Some  of  us  in  the  Latin  Quarter  found  the  man's 
egotism  insupportable,  and  gave  him  a  wide  berth. 
Others,  more  numerous,  among  them  the  irrepressible 
Chalks,  made  it  an  object  of  derision,  and  would  ex- 
haust their  ingenuity  in  efforts  to  lead  him  on,  and 
entice  him  into  more  and  more  egregious  exhibitions 
of  it ;  while,  if  they  did  not  laugh  in  his  face,  they 
took,  at  least,  no  slightest  pains  to  conceal  their  jubi- 
lant interchange  of  .winks  and  nudges. 

"  If  he  were  only  an  ass,"  Chalks  urged,  "  one  might 
feel  disposed  to  spare  him.  A  merciful  man  is  merci- 
ful to  a  beast.  But  he 's  such  a  cad,  to  boot,  —  bandying 
his  wife's  name  about  the  Latin  Quarter,  telling  Tom, 
Dick,  and  Harry  of  their  conjugal  differences,  and 
boasting  of  his  successes  with  other  women  ! " 

A  few  of  us,  however,  could  not  prevent  an  element 
of  pity  from  tincturing  our  amusement.  If  his  self- 
conceit  was  comical,  by  reason  of  its  candor,  it  was 
surely  pitiable,  because  of  the  poor  dwarfed  starve- 
ling of  a  soul  that  it  revealed.  Here  was  a  man, 
with  life  in  his  veins,  and  round  about  him  the  whole 

7 


98  GRAY  ROSES. 

mystery  and  richness  of  creation,  —  and  he  could 
seriously  think  of  nothing  save  how,  by  his  dress, 
by  his  speech,  his  postures,  to  render  himself  the 
observed  of  all  observers ! 

Wherever  he  went,  in  whatever  company  he  found 
himself,  that  was  the  sole  thing  he  cared  for,  —  to  be 
the  centre  of  attention,  to  be  looked  at,  listened  to, 
recognized  and  admired  as  a  celebrity.  And  if  the 
event  happened  otherwise,  if  he  had  ground  for  the 
suspicion  that  the  people  near  him  were  suffering 
their  minds  to  wander  to  another  topic,  his  face 
would  darken,  his  attitude  become  distinctly  one  of 
rancor.  With  Chalks,  familiarity  bred  boldness ; 
he  made  the  latter  days  of  Blake's  sojourn  amongst 
us  exceedingly  unhappy. 

"Now,  Mr.  Blake,"  he  would  say,  "we  are  going 
to  talk  of  art  and  love  and  things  in  general  for  a 
while,  to  rest  our  brains  from  the  author  of  '  Crispin 
Dorr.'  Please  step  into  the  corner  there  and  sulk." 

And  he  had  a  bit  of  slang,  which  he  set  to  a  bar  of 
music,  and  would  sing,  as  if  in  absence  of  mind, 
whenever  the  conversation  lapsed,  to  the  infinite 
annoyance  of  Mr.  Blake :  — 

"  Git  your  hair  cut  —  git  your  hair  cut  —  git  your 
hair  cut  —  short !  " 

"  If  that  is  meant  for  me,"  Blake  once  protested, 
"I  take  it  as  discourteous  in  the  last  degree." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  were  twenty  thousand  leagues 
from  my  thoughts.  And  as  for  getting  your  hair 
cut,  I  beseech  you,  don't.  You  would  shear  away 
the  fabric  of  our  joy,"  Chalks  answered. 

Blake  had  a  curiously  exaggerated  notion  of  his 
fame  ;  and  his  jealousy  thereof  surpassed  the  jealousy 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  99 

of  women.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  everybody 
had  heard  of  him,  and  bridled,  as  at  a  personal 
affront,  when  he  met  any  one  who  hadn't.  If  you 
fell  into  chance  talk  with  him,  in  ignorance  of  his 
identity,  he  could  not  let  three  minutes  pass  without 
informing  you.  And  then,  if  you  appeared  not 
adequately  impressed,  he  would  wax  ill-tempered. 
He  was  genuinely  convinced  that  his  person  and  his 
actions  were  affairs  of  consuming  interest  to  all  the 
world.  To  be  something,  to  do  something,  perhaps 
he  honestly  aspired;  but  to  seem  something  was 
certainly  his  ruling  passion. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  at  his  suggestion,  we  went 
together  to  the  studio  of  Z ,  and  I  intro- 
duced him  to  the  Master.  But,  as  we  moved  about 
the  vast  room,  among  those  small,  priceless  canvases, 
the  consciousness  grew  upon  me  that  my  companion 
was  in  some  distress  of  mind.  His  eye  wandered ; 
his  utterances  were  brief  and  dry.  At  length  he  got 
me  into  a  corner,  and  remarked,  "  You  introduced  me 
simply  as  Mr.  Blake.  He  evidently  does  n't  realize 
who  I  am." 

"  Oh,  these  Frenchmen  are  so  indifferent  to  things 
not  French,  you  know,"  said  I. 

"Yes  —  but  —  still  —  I  wish  you  could  make  an 
occasion  to  let  him  know.  In  introducing  me  you 
might  have  added  *  a  distinguished  English  author.7  >; 

"  But  do  you  quite  realize  who  he  is  ? "  I  cried. 
"He's  jolly  near  the  most  distinguished  living 
painter." 

"Never  mind.  He  is  treating  me  now  as  he  might 
Brown,  Jones,  or  Kobinson."  As  this  was  with  a 
superfine  consideration,  it  seemed  unreasonable  to 


100  GRA  Y  ROSES. 

demand  a  difference.  Nevertheless,  I  seized  an 
Opportunity  to  whisper  in  the  Master's  ear  a  word 
or  two  to  the  desired  effect.  "  Tiens !  "  he  returned, 
composedly,  and  continued  to  treat  his  visitor  precisely 
as  he  had  done  from  the  beginning. 

Blake  had  announced  that  he  wanted  to  gather  in- 
formation about  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  I  don't  doubt 
that  his  purpose  was  sincere;  but  he  employed  a 
novel  method  of  attaining  it.  We  took  him  every- 
where, we  showed  him  everything ;  I  could  never  ob- 
serve that  he  either  looked  or  listened.  He  would  sit 
(or  stand  or  walk),  his  eye  craving  admiration  from 
our  faces;  his  tongue  wagging  about  himself;  his 
early  hardships,  his  first  success,  his  habits  of  work, 
his  troubles  with  his  wife,  his  liaison  with  Lady 
Blank,  his  tastes  in  fruits  and  wines,  his  handwrit- 
ing, his  very  teeth  and  boots.  He  passed  his  life 
in  a  sort  of  trance,  an  ecstasy  of  self-absorption ;  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  his  own  conception  of  himself, 
like  a  metaphysical  Narcissus.  This  idiosyncrasy  was 
the  means  of  defeating  various  conspiracies,  in  which 
Chalks,  of  course,  was  the  prime  mover,  calculated 
to  impose  upon  his  credulity,  and  send  him  back  to 
London  loaded  down  with  misinformation. 

"  His  cheek,  by  Christopher ! "  cried  Chalks. 
'"Live  in  the  Quarter  for  a  fortnight,  keep  his  eyes 
and  ears  shut,  talk  perpetually  of  Davis  Blake,  and 
read  nothing  but  his  own  works,  and  then  go  home 
and  write  a  book  about  it.  I'll  quarter  him!  " 

But  Chalks  counted  without  his  man.  That  Mon- 
sieur Bullier,  the  founder  of  the  Closerie  des  Lilas, 
was  also  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  College 
de  France;  that  the  word  "etudiante"(for  Blake  had 


A   RE-INCARN.A  TIQN*  ^  -  ^  ^ 


only  a  tourist's  smattering  of  French)  should  literally 
be  translated  student,  and  that  the  young  ladies  who 
bore  it  as  a  name  were  indeed  pursuing  rigorous 
courses  of  study  at  the  Sorbonne;  that  it  was  obli- 
gatory upon  a  freshman  (nouveau)  in  the  Quarter  to 
shave  his  head  and  wear  wooden  shoes  for  the  first 
month  after  his  matriculation,  — from  these  and  kin- 
dred superstitions  Blake  was  saved  by  his  grand  talent 
for  never  paying  attention. 

In  the  mean  while  some  of  us  had  read  his  books : 
chromo-lithographs,  struck  in  the  primary  colors ; 
pasteboard  complications  of  passion  and  adventure, 
with  the  conservative  entanglement  of  threadbare 
marionnettes  —  a  hero,  tall,  with  golden  brown  mous- 
taches and  blue  eyes  ;  a  heroine,  lissome,  with  •<  sunny 
locks ; "  then  a  swarthy  villain,  for  the  most  part  a 
nobleman,  and  his  Spanish-looking  female  accomplice, 
who  had  an  uncomfortable  habit  of  delivering  her 
remarks  "from  between  clenched  teeth,"  and,  gen- 
erally, "in  a  blood-chilling  hiss,'7  —  the  narrative  set 
forth  in  a  sustained  fortissimo,  and  punctuated  by  the 
timely  exits  of  the  god  from  the  machine.  Never  a 
felicity,  never  an  impression.  I  fancy  he  had  made 
his  notes  of  human  nature  whilst  observing  the  per- 
sonages of  a  melodrama  at  a  provincial  theatre.  He 
loved  the  obvious  sentiment,  the  obvious  and  but 
approximate  word. 

But  the  climax  of  his  infatuation  was  not  disclosed 
till  the  night  before  he  left  us.  Again  we  were  in 
session  at  the  Cafe  des  Souris,  and  the  talk  had 
turned  upon  metempsychosis.  Blake,  for  a  wonder, 
pricked  up  his  ears  and  appeared  to  listen,  at  the  same 
time  watching  his  chance  to  take  the  floor.  Half-a- 


GRAY  ROSES. 

dozen  men  had  their  say  first,  however;  then  he 
cut  in. 

"  Metempsychosis  is  not  a  theory,  it  is  a  fact.  I 
can  testify  to  it  from  my  personal  experience.  I  know 
it.  I  can  distinctly  recall  my  former  life.  I  can  tell 
you  who  I  was,  who  my  friends  were,  what  I  did, 
what  I  felt,  everything,  down  to  the  very  dishes  I 
preferred  for  dinner." 

Chalks  scanned  Blake's  features  for  an  instant  with 
an  intentness  that  suggested  a  mingling  of  perplexity 
and  malice  ;  then,  all  at  once,  I  saw  a  light  flash  in  his 
eyes,  which  forthwith  began  to  twinkle  in  a  manner 
that  struck  me  as  ominous. 

"  In  my  early  youth,"  Blake  continued,  "  this 
memory  of  mine  was,  if  I  may  so  phrase  it,  piecemeal 
and  occasional.  Feeling  that  I  was  no  ordinary  man, 
conscious  of  strange  forces  struggling  in  me,  I  would 
obtain,  as  it  were,  glimpses,  fleeting  and  unsatisfac- 
tory, into  a  former  state.  Then  they  would  go,  not 
for  long  intervals  to  return.  As  time  elapsed,  how- 
ever, these  glimpses,  to  call  them  so,  became  more 
frequent  and  lasting,  the  intervals  of  oblivion  shorter  ; 
and  at  last,  one  day  on  Hampstead  Heath,  I  identified 
myself  in  a  sudden  burst  of  insight.  I  was  walking 
on  the  Heath,  and  thinking  of  my  work,  — marvelling 
at  a  certain  quality  I  had  discerned  in  it,  which,  I  was 
convinced,  would  assure  it  everlasting  life :  a  quality 
that  seemed  not  unfamiliar  to  me,  and  yet  which  I 
could  associate  with  none  of  the  writers  whose  names 
passed  in  review  before  my  mind  ;  not  with  Byron,  or 
Shelley,  or  Keats,  not  with  Wordsworth  or  Coleridge, 
Goethe  or  Dante,  not  even  with  Homer.  -  I  mean 
the  quality  which  I  call  universal,  —  universal  in  its 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  103 

authenticity,  universal  in  its  appeal.  By  and  by,  I 
took  out  a  little  pocket  mirror  that  I  always  carry, 
and  looked  into  it,  studying  my  face.  One  glance 
sufficed.  There,  suddenly,  on  Hampstead  Heath,  the 
whole  thing  flashed  upon  me.  I  saw,  I  understood ; 
I  realized  who  I  was,  I  remembered  everything." 

"  Stop  right  there,  Mr.  Blake,"  called  out  Chalks, 
in  stentorian  tones.  "  Don't  you  say  another  word. 
I  'm  going  to  hail  you  by  your  right  name  in  half-a- 
minute.  I  guess  I  must1  have  recognized  you  the  very 
first  time  I  clapped  eyes  on  your  distinguished  physi- 
ognomy ;  only  I  could  n't  just  place  you,  as  we  say 
over  in  America.  But  there  was  a  je  ne  sais  quoi  in 
the  whole  cut  of  your  jib  as  familiar  to  me  as  rolls 
and  coffee.  I  tried  and  tried  to  think  when  and 
where  I  'd  had  the  pleasure  before.  But  now  that  you 
speak  of  a  former  state  of  existence,  —  why,  I  'ni 
there !  It  was  all  I  needed,  just  a  little  hint  like 
that,  to  jog  my  memory.  Talk  about  entertaining 
angels  unawares !  The  beard,  eh  ?  And  the  yaller 
cloak  ?  And  ain't  there  a  statue  of  you  up  Boulevard 
Haussmann  way  ?  Shakesy,  old  man,  shake  ! " 

And  Chalks  got  hold  of  his  victim's  hand  and 
wrung  it  fervently.  "  I  'm  particularly  glad  to  meet 
you  this  way,"  he  added,  "  because  I  was  Queen 
Elizabeth  myself ;  and  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how 
sort  of  out  of  it  I  felt,  alone  here  with  all  this  degen- 
erate posterity." 

Blake  coldly  withdrew  his  hand,  frowning  loftily 
at  Chalks.  "  You  should  reserve  your  nonsense  for 
more  appropriate  occasions,"  he  said.  "  Though  you 
speak  in  a  spirit  of  foolish  levity,  you  have  builded 
better  than  you  knew.  I  am  indeed  Shakespeare  re- 


104  GRAY  ROSES. 

incarnated.  My  books  alone  would  prove  it;  they 
could  have  been  dictated  by  no  other  inind.  But  — 
look  at  this." 

He  produced  from  an  interior  pocket,  a  case  of  red 
morocco  and  handed  it  to  me.  "You"  he  said,  with 
a  flattering  emphasis  upon  the  pronoun,  "you  are  a 
man  who  can  treat  a  serious  matter  seriously.  What 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

The  case  contained  a  photograph,  and  the  photo- 
graph represented  the  head  and  shoulders  of  Mr. 
Blake  and  a  bust  of  Shakespeare,  placed  cheek  by 
jowl.  In  the  pointed  beard  and  the  wide-set  eyes 
there  were,  perhaps,  the  rudiments  of  something 
remotely  like  a  likeness. 

"  Is  n't  that  conclusive  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Does  n't 
that  place  the  fact  beyond  the  reach  of  question  ?  " 

"  You  Ve  got  more  hair  than  you  used  to  have," 
said  Chalks.  "  I  'm  talking  of  the  front  hair,  —  your 
forehead  ain't  as  high  as  it  was.  But  your  back  hair 
is  all  right  enough." 

"  You  have  put  your  finger  on  the  one,  the  only, 
point  of  difference,"  assented  Blake. 

On  our  way  home  he  took  my  arm,  and  pitched  his 
voice  in  the  key  of  confidence.  "  I  am  writing  my 
autobiography,  from  my  birth  in  Stratford  down  to  the 
present  day.  It  will  be  in  two  parts  ;  the  interim  when 
people  thought  me  dead,  marking  their  separation.  I 
was  not  dead ;  I  slept  a  dreamless  sleep.  Presently  I 
shall  sleep  again, — as  men  say,  die  ; -then  doubtless 
wake  again.  Life  and  death  are  but  sleeping  and 
waking  on  a  larger  scale.  Our  little  life  is  rounded 
with  a  sleep.  It  is  the  swing  of  the  pendulum,  the 
revolution  of  the  orb.  Yes,  I  am  writing  my  autobi- 


A   RE-INCARNATION.  105 

ography.  So  little  is  known  of  the  private  history  of 
Shakespeare,  conceive  the  boon  it  will  be  to  mankind. 
I  shall  leave  the  manuscripts  to  my  executors,  for 
them  to  publish  after  I  have  lain  down  to  my  next 
long  rest.  Of  special  value  will  be  the  chapters  tell- 
ing how  I  wrote  the  plays,  settling  disputed  readings, 
closing  all  controversy  upon  the  sanity  of  Hamlet, 
and  divulging  the  true  personality  of  Mr.  W.  H." 

He  came  into  my  room  for  a  little  visit  before 
going  to  bed.  There,  candle  in  hand,  he  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  into  my  chimney-glass. 

"  Yes,"  he  sighed  at  last,  "  it  is  solely  in  the  quan- 
tity of  my  hair  that  the  resemblance  fails." 

I  understood  now  why  he  trained  it  back  and  plas- 
tered it  down  over  his  scalp,  as  he  did ;  at  a  rough 
glance,  you  might  have  got  the  impression  that  the 
crown  of  his  head  was  bald.  I  suppose  he  is  the 
only  man  in  two  hemispheres  who  finds  the  opposite 
condition  a  matter  of  regret. 


FLOWER  0'  THE  QUINCE. 


FLOWER  0'  THE   QUINCE. 


THEODORE  VELLAN  had  been  out  of  England  for  more 
than  thirty  years.  Thirty  odd  years  ago  the  set  he 
lived  in  had  been  startled  and  mystified  by  his  sudden 
flight  and  disappearance.  At  that  time  his  position 
here  had  seemed  a  singularly  pleasant  one.  He  was 
young,  —  he  was  seven  or  eight  and  twenty ;  he  was 
fairly  well  off,  —  he  had  something  like  three  thou- 
sand a  year,  indeed;  he  belonged  to  an  excellent 
family,  —  the  Shropshire  Vellans,  of  whom  the  titled 
head,  Lord  Vellan  of  Norshingfield,  was  his  uncle; 
he  was  good-looking,  amiable,  amusing,  popular;  and 
he  had  just  won  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons  (as 
junior  member  for  Sheffingham),  where,  since  he  was 
believed  to  be  ambitious  as  well  as  clever,  it  was 
generally  expected  that  he  would  go  far. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  he  had  applied  for  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds,  and  left  England.  His  motives 
for  this  unlikely  course  he  explained  to  no  one.  To 
a  few  intimate  friends  he  wrote  brief  letters  of  fare- 
well. "  I  am  off  for  a  journey  round  the  world.  I 
shall  be  gone  an  indefinite  time."  The  indefinite 
time  ended  by  defining  itself  as  upwards  of  thirty 
years,  for  the  first  twenty  of  which  only  his  solicitor 
and  his  bankers  could  have  given  you  his  address, 
and  they  wouldn't.  For  the  last  ten  he  was  under* 


110  GRAY  ROSES. 

stood  to  be  living  in  the  island  of  Porto  Rico,  and 
planting  sugar.  Meanwhile  his  uncle  had  died,  and 
his  cousin  (his  uncle's  only  son)  had  succeeded  to 
the  peerage.  But  the  other  day  his  cousin,  too,  had 
died,  and  died  childless,  so  that  the  estates  and 
dignities  had  devolved  upon  himself.  With  that  a 
return  to  England  became  an  obligation;  there  were 
a  score  of  minor  beneficiaries  under  his  cousin's  will, 
whose  legacies  could  not,  without  great  delay,  be 
paid  unless  the  new  lord  was  at  hand. 


II 

Mrs.  Sandryl-Kempton  sat  before  the  fire  in  her 
wide,  airy,  faded  drawing-room,  and  thought  of  the 
Theodore  Vellan  of  old  days,  and  wondered  what  the 
present  Lord  Vellan  would  be  like.  She  had  got  a 
note  from  him  that  morning,  despatched  from  South- 
ampton the  day  before,  announcing,  "I  shall  be  in 
town  to-morrow,  at  Bowden's  Hotel,  in  Cork  Street," 
and  asking  when  he  might  come  to  her.  She  had 
answered  by  telegraph,  "Come  and  dine  at  eight 
to-night,"  to  which  he  had  wired  back  an  acceptance. 
Thereupon,  she  had  told  her  son  that  he  must  dine 
at  his  club;  and  now  she  was  seated  before  her  fire, 
waiting  for  Theodore  Vellan  to  arrive,  and  thinking 
of  thirty  years  ago. 

She  was  a  bride  then,  and  her  husband,  her  brother 
Paul,  and  Theodore  Vellan  were  bound  in  a  league 
of  ardent  young-mannish  friendship,  —  a  friendship 
that  dated  from  the  time  when  they  had  been  under- 
graduates together  at  Oxford.  She  thought  of  the 


FLOWER   O'    THE  QUINCE.  Ill 

three  handsome,  happy,  highly  endowed  young  men, 
and  of  the  brilliant  future  she  had  foreseen  for  each 
of  them,  —  her  husband  at  the  Bar,  her  brother  in 
the  Church,  and  Vellan  —  not  in  politics,  she  could 
never  understand  his  political  aspirations,  they 
seemed  quite  at  odds  with  the  rest  of  his  character, 
—  but  in  literature,  as  a  poet,  for  he  wrote  verse 
which  she  considered  very  unusual  and  pleasing. 
She  thought  of  this,  and  then  she  remembered  that 
her  husband  was  dead,  that  her  brother  was  dead, 
and  that  Theodore  Vellan  had  been  dead  to  his  world, 
at  all  events,  for  thirty  years.  Not  one  of  them 
had  in  any  way  distinguished  himself;  not  one  had 
in  any  measure  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  youth. 

Her  memories  were  sweet  and  bitter;  they  made 
her  heart  glow  and  ache.  Vellan,  as  she  recalled 
him,  had  been,  before  all  things,  gentle.  He  was 
witty,  he  had  humor,  he  had  imagination;  but  he 
was,  before  all  things,  gentle, — with  the  gentlest 
voice,  the  gentlest  eyes,  the  gentlest  manners.  His 
gentleness,  she  told  herself,  was  the  chief  element 
of  his  charm, — his  gentleness,  which  was  really  a 
phase  of  his  modesty.  "He  was  very  gentle,  he  was 
very  modest,  he  was  very  graceful  and  kind,"  she 
said ;  and  she  remembered  a  hundred  instances  of  his 
gentleness,  his  modesty,  his  kindness.  Oh,  but  he 
was  no  milksop.  He  had  plenty  of  spirit,  plenty  of 
fun;  he  was  boyish,  he  could  romp.  And  at  that,  a 
scene  repeated  itself  to  her  mind,  —  a  scene  that  had 
passed  in  this  same  drawing-room  more  than  thirty 
years  ago.  It  was  tea-time,  and  on  the  tea-table  lay 
a  dish  of  pearl  biscuits ,  and  she  and  her  husband  and 
Vellan  were  alone.  Her  husband  took  a  handful  of 


112  GRAY  ROSES. 

pearl  biscuits,  and  tossed  them  one  by  one  into  the 
air,  while  Yellan  threw  back  his  head,  and  caught 
them  in  his  mouth  as  they  came  down,  —  that  was 
one  of  his  accomplishments.  She  smiled  as  she 
remembered  it,  but  at  the  same  time  she  put  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Why  did  he  go  away?  What  could  it  have 
been?"  she  wondered,  her  old  bewilderment  at  his 
conduct,  her  old  longing  to  comprehend  it,  reviving 
with  something  of  the  old  force.  ''Could  it  have 
been  .  .  .?  Could  it  have  been  .  .  .?"  And  an 
old  guess,  an  old  theory,  one  she  had  never  spoken 
to  anybody,  but  had  pondered  much  in  silence,  again 
presented  itself  interrogatively  to  her  mind. 

The  door  opened;  the  butler  mumbled  a  name;  and 
she  saw  a  tall,  white-haired,  pale  old  man  smiling  at 
her  and  holding  out  his  hands.  It  took  her  a  little 
while  to  realize  who  it  was.  With  an  unthinking 
disallowance  for  the  action  of  time,  she  had  been 
expecting  a  young  fellow  of  eight  and  twenty,  brown- 
haired  and  ruddy. 

Perhaps  he,  on  his  side,  was  taken  aback  a  little 
to  meet  a  middle-aged  lady  in  a  cap. 


Ill 

After  dinner  he  would  not  let  her  leave  him,  but 
returned  with  her  to  the  drawing-room,  and  she  said 
that  he  might  smoke.  He  smoked  odd  little  Cuban 
cigarettes,  whereof  the  odor  was  delicate  and  aro- 
matic. They  had  talked  of  everything;  they  had 
laughed  and  sighed  over  their  ancient  joys  and 


FLOWER   0'   THE  QUINCE.  113 

sorrows.  We  know  how,  in  the  Courts  of  Memory, 
Mirth  and  Melancholy  wander  hand  in  hand.  She 
had  cried  a  little  when  her  husband  and  her  brother 
were  first  spoken  of,  but  at  some  comic  reminiscence 
of  them,  a  moment  afterwards,  she  was  smiling 
through  her  tears.  k4Do  you  remember  so-and-so?" 
and  "What  has  become  of  such-a-one?"  were  types 
of  the  questions  they  asked  each  other,  conjuring  up 
old  friends  and  enemies  like  ghosts  out  of  the  past. 
Incidentally,  he  had  described  Porto  Rico  and  its 
negroes  and  its  Spaniards,  its  climate,  its  fauna,  and 
its  flora. 

In  the  drawing-room  they  sat  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  fire,  and  were  silent  for  a  bit.  Profiting  by  the 
permission  she  had  given  him,  he  produced  one  of 
his  Cuban  cigarettes,  opened  it  at  its  ends,  unrolled 
it,  rolled  it  up  again,  and  lit  it. 

"Now  the  time  has  come  for  you  to  tell  me  what  I 
most  want  to  know,"  she  said. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Why  you  went  away." 

"Oh,"  he  murmured. 

She  waited  a  minute.  Then,  "Tell  me,"  she 
urged. 

44  Do  you  remember  Mary  Isona?"  he  asked. 

She  glanced  up  at  him  suddenly,  as  if  startled. 
"Mary  Isona  ?  Yes,  of  course." 

"Well,  I  was  in  love  with  her." 

"  You  were  in  love  with  Mary  Isona?  " 

"  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  her.  I  have  never 
got  over  it,  I  'm  afraid." 

She  gazed  fixedly  at  the  fire.  Her  lips  were  com- 
pressed. She  saw  a  slender  girl  in  a  plain  black 

8 


114  GRAY  ROSES. 

frock,  with  a  sensitive  pale  face,  luminous,  sad 
dark  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  dark  waving  hair,  — Mar}' 
Isona,  of  Italian  parentage,  a  little  music-teacher, 
whose  only  relation  to  the  world  Theodore  Vellan 
lived  in  was  professional.  She  came  into  it  for  an 
hour  or  two  at  a  time  now  and  then,  to  play  or  to 
give  a  music-lesson. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "I  was  in  love  with  her.  I 
have  never  been  in  love  with  any  other  woman.  It 
seems  ridiculous  for  an  old  man  to  say  it,  but  I  am 
in  love  with  her  still.  An. old  man?  Are  we  ever 
really  old?  Our  body  grows  old,  our  skin  wrinkles, 
our  hair  turns  white;  but  the  mind,  the  spirit,  the 
heart  ?  The  thing  we  call  "  I "  ?  Anyhow,  not  a 
day,  not  an  hour,  passes,  but  I  think  of  her,  I  long 
for  her,  I  mourn  for  her.  You  knew  her  —  you 
knew  what  she  was.  Do  you  remember  her  playing? 
her  wonderful  eyes?  her  beautiful  pale  face?  And 
how  the  hair  grew  round  her  forehead?  And  her 
talk,  her  voice,  her  intelligence!  Her  taste,  her 
instinct,  in  literature,  in  art,  —  it  was  the  finest  I 
have  ever  met." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  Mrs.  Kempton  said  slowly.  "She 
was  a  rare  woman.  I  knew  her  intimately,  —  better 
than  any  one  else,  I  think.  I  knew  all  the  unhappy 
circumstances  of  her  life,  —  her  horrid,  vulgar  mother; 
her  poor,  dreamy,  inefficient  father;  her  poverty; 
how  hard  she  had  to  work.  You  were  in  love  with 
her.  Why  didn't  you  marry  her?" 

"My  love  was  not  returned." 

"Did  you  ask  her?" 

"No.     It  was  needless ;  it  went  without  saying." 

"  You  never  can  tell.    You  ought  to  have  asked  her." 


FLOWER   0'   THE  QUINCE.  115 

"It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  of  course,  to  do 
so  a  hundred  times.  My  life  was  passed  in  torturing 
myself  with  the  question  whether  I  had  any  chance, 
in  hoping  and  fearing.  But  as  often  as  I  found  myself 
alone  with  her,  I  knew  it  was  hopeless.  Her  manner 
to  me,  —  it  was  one  of  frank  friendliness.  There  was 
no  mistaking  it.  She  never  thought  of  loving  me." 

"  You  were  wrong  not  to  ask  her.  One  never  can 
be  sure.  Oh!  why  didn't  you  ask  her?"  His  old 
friend  spoke  with  great  feeling. 

He  looked  at  her,  surprised  and  eager.  "  Do  you 
really  think  she  might  have  cared  for  me?" 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  have  told  her;  you  ought  to 
have  asked  her,"  she  repeated. 

"Well  —  now  you  know  why  I  went  away." 

"Yes." 

"  When  I  heard  of  her  —  her  —  death  "  —  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  say  her  suicide  —  "there  was 
nothing  else  for  me  to  do.  It  was  so  hideous,  so 
unutterable.  To  go  on  with  my  old  life,  in  the  old 
place,  among  the  old  people,  was  quite  impossible. 
I  wanted  to  follow  her,  to  do  what  she  had  done. 
The  only  alternative  was  to  fly  as  far  from  England, 
as  far  from  myself,  as  I  could." 

"  Sometimes  "  Mrs.  Kempton  confessed  by  and  by, 
"sometimes  I  wondered  whether,  possibly,  your  dis- 
appearance could  have  had  any  such  connection  with 
Mary's  death,  —  it  followed  it  so  immediately.  I 
wondered  sometimes  whether,  perhaps,  you  had  cared 
for  her.  But  I  couldn't  believe  it;  it  was  only 
because  the  two  things  happened  one  upon  the 
other.  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  her?  It  is  dread- 
ful, dreadful!" 


116  GRAY  ROSES. 


IV 

When  he  had  left  her,  she  sat  still  for  a  little 
while  before  the  fire. 

"  Life  is  a  chance  to  make  mistakes,  —  a  chance  to 
make  mistakes.  Life  is  a  chance  to  make  mistakes." 

It  was  a  phrase  she  had  met  in  a  book  she  was 
reading  the  other  day:  then  she  had  smiled  at  it; 
now  it  rang  in  her  ears  like  the  voice  of  a  mocking 
demon. 

"Yes,  a  chance  to  make  mistakes,"  she  said,  half 
aloud. 

She  rose  and  went  to  her  desk,  unlocked  a  drawer, 
turned  over  its  contents,  and  took  out  a  letter,  —  an 
old  letter,  for  the  paper  was  yellow,  and  the  ink  was 
faded.  She  came  back  to  the  fireside,  and  unfolded 
the  letter  and  read  it.  It  covered  six  pages  of  note- 
paper,  in  a  small  feminine  hand;  it  was  a  letter 
Mary  Isona  had  written  to  her,  Margaret  Kempton, 
the  night  before  she  died,  more  than  thirty  years 
ago.  The  writer  recounted  the  many  harsh  circum- 
stances of  her  life;  but  they  would  all  have  been 
bearable,  she  said,  save  for  one  great  and  terrible 
secret.  She  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  who  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  her  existence;  she,  a  little 
obscure  Italian  music-teacher,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Theodore  Vellan.  It  was  as  if  she  had  fallen 
in  love  with  an  inhabitant  of  another  planet,  the 
worlds  they  respectively  belonged  to  were  so  far 
apart.  She  loved  him  —  she  loved  him  —  and  she 
knew  her  love  was  hopeless,  and  she  could  not  bear 
it.  Oh,  yes ;  she  met  him  sometimes,  here  and  there, 


FLOWER   0"    THE   QUINCE.  Ill 

at  houses  she  went  to  to  play,  to  give  lessons.  He 
was  civil  to  her;  he  was  more  than  civil,  — he  was 
kind;  he  talked  to  her  about  literature  and  music. 
"He  is  so  gentle,  so  strong,  so  wise;  but  he  has  never 
thought  of  me  as  a  woman,  —  a  woman  who  could 
love,  who  could  be  loved.  Why  should  he?  If  the 
moth  falls  in  love  with  the  star,  the  moth  must 
suffer.  ...  I  am  cowardly;  I  am  weak;  I  am  what 
you  will ;  but  I  have  more  than  I  can  bear.  Life  is 
too  hard, — too  hard.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  dead. 
You  will  be  the  only  person  to  know  why  I  died,  and 
you  will  keep  my  secret." 

"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  —  the  pity  of  it!"  murmured 
Mrs.  Kempton.  "  I  wonder  whether  I  ought  to  have 
shown  him  Mary's  letter." 


WHEN  I  AM  KING. 


WHEN   I  AM  KING. 

"  Qu?y  faire,  mon  JDieu,  qu'y  faire  ?  " 

I  HAD  wandered  into  a  tangle  of  slummy  streets, 
and  began  to  think  it  time  to  inquire  my  way  back  to 
the  hotel;  then,  turning  a  corner,  I  came  out  upon 
the  quays.  At  one  hand  there  was  the  open  night, 
with  the  dim  forms  of  many  ships,  and  stars  hanging 
in  a  web  of  masts  and  cordage  ;  at  the  other,  the 
garish  illumination  of  a  row  of  public-houses  :  Au 
Bonheur  du  Matelot,  Cafe  de  la  Marine,  Brasserie  des 
Quatre  Vents,  and  so  forth, — rowdy-looking  shops 
enough,  designed  for  the  entertainment  of  the  fore- 
castle. But  they  seemed  to  promise  something  in  the 
nature  of  local  color ;  and  I  entered  the  Brasserie  des 
Quatre  Vents. 

It  proved  to  be  a  brasserie-a-femmes ;  you  were 
waited  upon  by  ladies,  lavishly  rouged  and  in  regard- 
less toilets,  who  would  sit  with  you  and  chat,  and 
partake  of  refreshments  at  your  expense.  The  front 
part  of  the  room  was  filled  up  with  tables,  where  half 
a  hundred  customers,  talking  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  raised  a  horrid  din,  —  sailors,  soldiers,  a  few 
who  might  be  clerks  or  tradesmen,  and  an  occasional 
workman  in  his  blouse.  Beyond,  there  was  a  cleared 
space,  reserved  for  dancing,  occupied  by  a  dozen 
couples,  clumsily  toeing  it ;  and  on  a  platform,  at  the 
far  end,  a  man  pounded  a  piano.  All  this  in  an 
atmosphere  hot  as  a  furnace-blast,  and  poisonous  with 


122  GRAY  ROSES. 

the  fumes  of  gas,  the  smells  of  bad  tobacco,  of  musk, 
alcohol,  and  humanity. 

The  musician  faced  away  from  the  company,  so 
that  only  his  shoulders  and  the  back  of  his  gray  head 
were  visible,  bent  over  his  keyboard.  It  was  sad  to 
see  a  gray  head  in  that  situation ;  and  one  wondered 
what  had  brought  it  there,  what  story  of  vice  or  weak- 
ness or  evil  fortune.  Though  his  instrument  was 
harsh,  and  he  had  to  bang  it  violently  to  be  heard 
above  the  roar  of  conversation,  the  man  played  with  a 
kind  of  cleverness,  and  with  certain  fugitive  sugges- 
tions of  good  style.  He  had  once  studied  an  art,  and 
had  hopes  and  aspirations,  who  now,  in  his  age,  was 
come  to  serve  the  revels  of  a  set  of  drunken  sailors, 
in  a  disreputable  tavern,  where  they  danced  with 
prostitutes.  I  don't  know  why,  but  from  the  first  he 
drew  my  attention ;  and  I  left  my  handmaid  to  count 
her  charms  neglected,  while  I  sat  and  watched  him, 
speculating  about  him  in  a  melancholy  way,  with  a 
sort  of  vicarious  shame. 

But  presently  something  happened  to  make  me  for- 
get him,  —  something  of  his  own  doing.  A  dance  had 
ended,  and  after  a  breathing  spell  he  began  to  play 
an  interlude.  It  was  an  instance  of  how  tunes,  like 
perfumes,  have  the  power  to  wake  sleeping  memories. 
The  tune  he  was  playing  now,  simple  and  dreamy  like 
a  lullaby,  and  strangely  at  variance  with  the  sur- 
roundings, whisked  me  off  in  a  twinkling,  far  from 
the  actual  —  ten,  fifteen  years  backwards — to  my 
student  life  in  Paris,  and  set  me  to  thinking,  as  I  had 
not  thought  for  many  a  long  day,  of  my  hero,  friend, 
and  comrade,  Edmund  Pair  ;  for  it  was  a  tune  of 
Pair's  composition,  a  melody  he  had  written  to  a 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  123 

nurserj7"  rhyme,  and  used  to  sing  a  good  deal,  half  in 
fun,  half  in  earnest,  to  his  lady-love,  Godelinette  : 

"Lavender's  blue,  diddle-diddle, 

Lavender  'a  green ; 
When  I  am  king,  diddle-diddle, 
You  shall  be  queen." 

It  is  certain  he  meant  very  seriously  that  if  he  ever 
came  into  his  kingdom,  Godelinette  should  be  queen. 
The  song  had  been  printed,  but,  so  far  as  I  knew,  had 
never  had  much  vogue  ;  and  it  seemed  an  odd  chance 
that  this  evening,  in  a  French  seaport  town  where  I 
was  passing  a  single  night,  I  should  stray  by  hazard 
into  a  sailors'  pothouse  and  hear  it  again. 

Edmund  Pair  lived  in  the  Latin  Quarter  when  I 
did,  but  he  was  no  longer  a  mere  student.  He  had 
published  a  good  many  songs ;  articles  had  been 
written  about  them  in  the  newspapers ;  and  at  his 
rooms  you  would  meet  the  men  who  had  "  arrived," 
—  actors,  painters,  musicians,  authors,  and  now  and 
then  a  politician,  —  who  thus  recognized  him  as  more 
or  less  one  of  themselves.  Everybody  liked  him ; 
everybody  said,  "  He  is  splendidly  gifted ;  he  will  go 
far."  A  few  of  us  already  addressed  him,  half-play- 
fully  perhaps,  as  cher  maitre. 

He  was  three  or  four  years  older  than  I,  —  eight-  or 
nine-and-twenty  to  my  twenty-five,  —  and  I  was  still 
in  the  schools ;  but  for  all  that  we  were  great  chums. 
Quite  apart  from  his  special  talent,  he  was  a  remark- 
able man,  —  amusing  in  talk,  good-looking,  generous, 
affectionate.  He  had  read  ;  he  had  travelled ;  he  had 
hob-and-nobbed  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people. 


124  GRAY  ROSES. 

He  had  wit,  imagination,  humor,  and  a  voice  that 
made  whatever  he  said  a  cordial  to  the  ear.  For 
myself,  I  admired  him,  enjoyed  him,  loved  him,  with 
equal  fervor ;  he  had  all  of  my  hero-worship,  and  the 
lion's  share  of  my  friendship ;  perhaps  I  was  vain  as 
well  as  glad  to  be  distinguished  by  his  intimacy. 
We  used  to  spend  two  or  three  evenings  a  week 
together,  at  his  place  or  at  mine,  or  over  the  table 
of  a  cafe,  talking  till  the  small  hours, — Elysian 
sessions,  at  which  we  smoked  more  cigarettes  and 
emptied  more  bocks  than  I  should  care  to  count.  On 
Sundays  and  holidays  we  would  take  long  walks  arm- 
in-arm  in  the  Bois,  or,  accompanied  by  Godelinette, 
go  to  Viroflay  or  Fontainebleau,  lunch  in  the  open, 
bedeck  our  hats  with  wild-flowers,  and  romp  like 
children.  He  was  tall  and  slender,  with  dark,  waving 
hair,  a  delicate  aquiline  profile,  a  clear  brown  skin, 
and  gray  eyes,  alert,  intelligent,  kindly.  I  fancy  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel,  flooded  with  sunshine,  broken 
here  and  there  by  long  crisp  shadows;  trams  and 
omnibuses  toiling  up  the  hill,  tooting  their  horns  ; 
students  and  etudiantes  sauntering  gayly  backwards 
and  forwards  on  the  trottoir ;  an  odor  of  asphalte,  of 
caporal  tobacco ;  myself  one  of  the  multitude  on  the 
terrace  of  a  cafe  ;  and  Edmund  and  Godelinette  com- 
ing to  join  me,  —  he  with  his  swinging  stride,  a  ges- 
ture of  salutation,  a  laughing  face  ;  she  in  the  freshest 
of  bright-colored  spring  toilets  :  I  fancy  this,  and  it 
seems  an  adventure  of  the  golden  age.  Then  we 
would  drink  our  aperitifs,  our  Turin  bitter,  perhaps 
our  absinthe,  and  go  off  to  dine  together  in  the  garden 
at  Lavenue's. 

Godelinette  was  a  child  of  the  people,  but  Pair  had 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  125 

done  wonders  by  way  of  civilizing  her.  She  had  learned 
English,  and  prattled  it  with  an  accent  so  quaint 
and  sprightly  as  to  give  point  to  her  otherwise  perhaps 
somewhat  commonplace  observations.  She  was  fond 
of  reading ;  she  could  play  a  little  ;  she  was  an  excel- 
lent housewife,  and  generally  a  very  good-natured 
and  quite  presentable  little  person.  She  was  Parisian 
and  adaptable.  To  meet  her,  you  would  never  have 
suspected  her  origin  ;  you  would  have  found  it  hard 
to  believe  that  she  had  been  the  wife  of  a  drunken 
tailor,  who  used  to  beat  her.  One  January  night, 
four  or  five  years  before,  Pair  had  surprised  this 
gentleman  publicly  pummelling  her  in  the  Rue  Gay- 
Lussac.  He  hastened  to  remonstrate  ;  and  the  hus- 
band went  off,  hiccoughing  of  his  outraged  rights, 
and  calling  the  universe  to  witness  that  he  would 
have  the  law  of  the  meddling  stranger.  Pair  picked 
the  girl  up  (she  was  scarcely  eighteen  then,  and  had 
only  been  married  a  six-month), — he  picked  her  up 
from  where  she  had  fallen,  half  fainting,  on  the 
pavement,  carried  her  to  his  lodgings,  which  were  at 
hand,  and  sent  for  a  doctor.  In  his  manuscript- 
littered  study,  for  rather  more  than  nine  weeks,  she 
lay  on  a  bed  of  fever,  the  consequence  of  blows,  ex- 
haustion, and  exposure.  When  she  got  well  there 
was  no  talk  of  her  leaving.  Pair  could  n't  let  her  go 
back  to  her  tailor;  he  couldn't  turn  her  into  the 
streets.  Besides,  during'  the  months  that  he  had 
nursed  her,  he  had  somehow  conceived  a  great  tender- 
ness for  her  ;  it  made  his  heart  burn  with  grief  and 
anger  to  think  of  what  she  suffered  in  the  past,  and 
he  yearned  to  sustain  and  protect  and  comfort  her 
for  the  future.  This  perhaps  was  no  more  than  natu- 


126  GRAY  ROSES. 

ral;  but,  what  rather  upset  the  calculations  of  his 
friends,  she,  towards  whom  he  had  established  him- 
self in  the  relation  of  a  benefactor,  bore  him,  instead 
of  a  grudge  therefor,  a  passionate  gratitude  and 
affection.  So,  Pair  said,  they  were  only  waiting  till 
her  tailor  should  drink  himself  to  death,  to  get  mar- 
ried ;  and  meanwhile,  he  exacted  for  her  all  the 
respect  that  would  have  been  due  to  his  wife ;  and 
everybody  called  her  by  his  name.  She  was  a  pretty 
little  thing,  very  daintily  formed,  with  tiny  hands 
and  feet,  and  big  gipsyish  brown  eyes ;  and  very 
delicate,  very  fragile, — she  looked  as  if  anything 
might  carry  her  off.  Her  name,  Godeleine,  seeming 
much  too  grand  and  mediaeval  for  so  small  and  actual 
a  person,  Pair  had  turned  it  into  Godelinette. 

We  all  said,  "  He  is  splendidly  gifted ;  he  will  do 
great  things."  He  had  studied  at  Cambridge  and  at 
Leipsic  before  coming  to  Paris.  He  was  learned, 
enlightened,  and  extremely  modern  ;  he  was  a  hard 
worker.  We  said  he  would  do  great  things  ;  but  I 
thought  in  those  days,  and  indeed  I  still  think  —  and, 
what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  men  who  were  them- 
selves musicians  and  composers,  men  whose  names 
are  known,  were  before  me  in  thinking  —  that  he 
had  already  done  great  things,  that  the  songs  he  had 
already  published  were  achievements.  They  seemed 
to  us  original  in  conception,  accomplished  and  felici- 
tous in  treatment ;  they  were  full  of  melody  and 
movement,  full  of  harmonic  surprises  ;  they  had  style 
and  they  had  "  go."  One  would  have  imagined  they 
must  please  at  once  the  cultivated  and  the  general 
public.  I  could  never  understand  why  they  were  n't 
popular.  They  would  be  printed;  they  would  be 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  127 

praised  at  length,  and  under  distinguished  signatures, 
in  the  reviews ;  they  would  enjoy  an  unusual  success 
of  approbation  ;  but  —  they  would  n't  sell,  and  they 
wouldn't  get  themselves  sung  at  concerts.  If  they 
had  been  too  good,  if  they  had  been  over  the  heads 
of  people  —  but  they  were  n't.  Plenty  of  work  quite 
as  good,  quite  as  modern,  yet  no  whit  more  tuneful  or 
interesting,  was  making  its  authors  rich.  We  couldn't 
understand  it ;  we  had  to  conclude  it  was  a  fluke,  a  ques- 
tion of  chance,  of  accident.  Pair  was  still  a  very  young 
man;  he  must  go  on  knocking,  and  some  day  —  to- 
morrow, next  week,  next  year,  but  some  day  certainly 
—  the  door  of  public  favor  would  be  opened  to  him. 
Meanwhile  his  position  was  by  no  means  an  unenvia- 
ble one,  goodness  knows.  To  have  your  orbit  in  the 
art  world  of  Paris,  and  to  be  recognized  there  as  a 
star ;  to  be  written  about  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux- 
Mondes  ;  "  to  possess  the  friendship  of  the  masters, 
to  know  that  they  believe  in  you,  to  hear  them  proph- 
esy, "  He  will  do  great  things  "  —  all  that  is  some- 
thing, even  if  your  wares  don't  "take  on"  in  the 
market-place. 

"  It 's  a  good  job,  though,  that  I  have  n't  got  to 
live  by  them,"  Pair  said ;  and  there  indeed  he  touched 
a  salient  point.  His  people  were  dead  ;  his  father 
had  been  a  younger  son ;  he  had  no  money  of  his  own. 
But  his  father's  elder  brother,  a  squire  in  Hampshire, 
made  him  rather  a  liberal  allowance,  —  something 
like  six  hundred  a  year,  I  believe,  which  was  opulence 
in  the  Latin  Quarter.  Now,  the  squire  had  been  aware 
of  Pair's  relation  with  Godelinette  from  its  inception, 
and  had  not  disapproved.  On  his  visits  to  Paris  he 
had  dined  with  them,  given  them  dinners,  and  treated 


128  GRAY  ROSES. 

her  with  the  utmost  complaisance.  But  when,  one 
fine  morning,  her  tailor  died,  arid  my  quixotic  friend 
announced  his  intention  of  marrying  her,  dans  les 
delais  legaux  the  squire  protested.  I  think  I  read 
the  whole  correspondence,  and  I  remember  that  in 
the  beginning  the  elder  man  took  the  tone  of  paradox 
and  banter.  "  Behave  dishonorably,  my  dear  fellow. 
I  have  winked  at  your  mistress  heretofore,  because 
boys  will  be  boys ;  but  it  is  the  man  who  marries. 
And,  anyhow,  a  woman  is  so  much  more  interesting 
in  a  false  position."  But  he  soon  became  serious,  pre- 
sently furious,  and,  when  the  marriage  was  an  accom- 
plished fact,  cut  off  the  funds. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  Pair.  "We  will  go 
to  London  and  seek  our  fortune.  We  will  write  the 
songs  of  the  people,  and  let  who  will  make  the  laws. 
We  will  grow  rich  and  famous,  and 

"  When  I  am  king,  diddle-diddle, 
You  shall  be  queen  !  " 

So  they  went  to  London  to  seek  their  fortune,  and 
—  that  was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  them,  nearly  the 
last  I  heard.  I  had  two  letters  from  Pair,  written 
within  a  month  of  their  hegira,  —  gossipy,  light- 
hearted  letters,  describing  the  people  they  were  meet- 
ing, reporting  Godelinette's  quaint  observations  upon 
England  and  English  things,  explaining  his  hopes,  his 
intentions,  all  very  confidently,  —  and  then  I  had  no 
more.  I  wrote  again,  and  still  again,  till,  getting  no 
answer,  of  course  I  ceased  to  write.  I  was  hurt  and 
puzzled ;  but  in  the  spring  we  should  meet  in  London, 
and  could  have  it  out.  When  the  spring  came,  how- 
ever, my  plans  were  altered ;  I  had  to  go  to  America. 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  129 

I  went  by  way  of  Havre,  expecting  to  stay  six  weeks, 
and  was  gone  six  years. 

On  my  return  to  England  I  said  to  people,  "You 
have  a  brilliant  young  composer  named  Pair.  Can 
you  put  me  in  the  way  of  procuring  his  address  ?  " 
The  fortune  he  had  come  to  seek  he  would  surely 
have  found ;  he  would  be  a  known  man.  But  people 
looked  blank,  and  declared  they  had  never  heard  of 
him.  I  applied  to  music-publishers  —  with  the  same 
result.  I  wrote  to  his  uncle  in  Hampshire  ;  the  squire 
did  not  reply.  When  I  reached  Paris  I  inquired  of 
our  friends  there  ;  they  were  as  ignorant  as  I.  "  He 
must  be  dead,"  I  concluded.  "  If  he  had  lived,  it  is 
impossible  we  should  not  have  heard  of  him."  And  I 
wondered  what  had  become  of  Godelinette. 

Then  another  eight  or  ten  years  passed,  and  now, 
in  a  waterside  public  at  Bordeaux,  an  obscure  old 
pianist  was  playing  Pair's  setting  of  "  Lavender  ?s 
blue,"  and  stirring  a  hundred  bitter-sweet,  far-away 
memories  of  my  friend.  It  was  as  if  fifteen  years 
were  erased  from  my  life.  The  face  of  Godelinette 
was  palpable  before  me,  —  pale,  with  its  sad  little 
smile,  its  bright  appealing  eyes.  Edmund  might  have 
been  smoking  across  the  table  —  I  could  hear  his 
voice,  I  could  have  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  him. 
And  all  round  me  were  the  streets,  the  lights,  the 
smells,  the  busy  youthful  va-et-vient  of  the  Latin 
Quarter ;  and  in  my  heart  the  yearning,  half  joy  and 
all  despair  and  anguish,  with  which  we  think  of  the 
old  days  when  we  were  young,  of  how  real  and  dear 
they  were,  of  how  irrecoverable  they  are. 

And  then  the  music  stopped,  the  Brasserie  des 
Quatre  Vents  became  a  glaring  reality,  and  the 

9 


130  GRAY  ROSES. 

painted  female  sipping  eau-de-vie  at  my  elbow  re- 
marked plaintively,  '  Tu  n'es  pas  rigolo,  toi.  Veux-tu 
faire  une  valse  ?  " 

"  I  must  speak  to  your  musician,"  I  said.  "  Excuse 
me." 

He  had  played  a  bit  of  Pair's  music.  It  was  one 
chance  in  a  thousand,  but  I  wanted  to  ask  him  whether 
he  could  tell  me  anything  about  the  composer.  So  I 
penetrated  to  the  bottom  of  the  shop,  and  approached 
his  platform.  He  was  bending  over  some  sheets  of 
music  —  making  his  next  selection,  doubtless. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  "I  began. 

He  turned  towards  me.  You  will  not  be  surprised 
—  I  was  looking  into  Pair's  own  face. 

You  will  not  be  surprised,  but  you  will  imagine 
what  it  was  for  me.  Oh,  yes,  I  recognized  him  in- 
stantly ;  there  could  be  no  mistake.  And  he  recog- 
nized me,  for  he  flushed,  and  winced,  and  started 
back. 

I  suppose  for  a  little  while  we  were  both  of  us 
speechless,  speechless  and  motionless,  while  our  hearts 
stopped  beating.  By  and  by  I  think  I  said  —  some- 
thing had  to  be  said  to  break  the  situation  —  I  think 
I  said,  "It's  you,  Edmund?"  I  remember  he  fum- 
bled with  a  sheet  of  music,  and  kept  his  eyes  bent  on 
it,  and  muttered  something  inarticulate.  Then  there 
was  another  speechless,  helpless  suspension.  He  con- 
tinued to  fumble  his  music  without  looking  up.  At 
last  I  remember  saying,  through  a  sort  of  sickness 
and  giddiness,  "Let  us  get  out  of  here — where  we 
can  talk." 

"I  can't  leave  yet.  I've  got  another  dance,"  he 
answered. 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  131 

«  Well,  I  '11  wait,"  said  I. 

I  sat  down  near  him  and  waited,  trying  to  create 
some  kind  of  order  out  of  the  chaos  in  my  mind,  and 
half  automatically  watching  and  considering  him  as 
he  played  his  dance,  —  Edmund  Pair  playing  a  dance 
for  prostitutes  and  drunken  sailors.  He  was  not 
greatly  changed.  There  were  the  same  gray  eyes, 
deep-set  and  wide  apart,  under  the  same  broad 
forehead;  the  same  fine  nose  and  chin,  the  same 
sensitive  mouth.  The  whole  face  was  pretty  much 
the  same,  only  thinner  perhaps,  and  with  a  look 
of  apathy,  of  inanimation,  that  was  foreign  to  my 
recollection  of  it.  His  hair  had  turned  quite  white, 
but  otherwise  he  appeared  no  older  than  his  years. 
His  figure,  tall,  slender,  well-knit,  retained  its  vigor 
and  its  distinction.  Though  he  wore  a  shabby  brown 
Norfolk  jacket,  and  his  beard  was  two  days  old,  you 
could  in  no  circumstances  have  taken  him  for 
anything  but  a  gentleman.  I  waited  anxiously  for 
the  time  when  we  should  be  alone,  —  anxiously,  yet 
with  a  sort  of  terror.  I  was  burning  to  understand, 
and  yet  I  shrunk  from  doing  so.  If  to  conjecture 
even  vaguely  what  experiences  could  have  brought 
him  to  this,  what  dark  things  suffered  or  done,  had 
been  melancholy  when  he  was  a  nameless  old 
musician,  now  it  was  apalling,  and  I  dreaded  the 
explanation  that  I  longed  to  hear. 

At  last  he  struck  his  final  chord,  and  rose  from  the 
piano.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  composedly 
enough,  "  Well,  I'm  ready."  He  apparently  had  in 
some  measure  pulled  himself  together.  In  the  street 
he  took  my  arm.  "  Let  's  walk  in  this  direction," 
he  said,  leading  off,  "  towards  the  Christian  quarter  of 


132  GRAY  ROSES. 

the  town."  And  in  a  moment  he  went  on  :  "  This 
has  been  an  odd  meeting.  What  brings  you  to 
Bordeaux  ?  " 

I  explained  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  Biarritz, 
stopping  for  the  night  between  two  trains. 

"  Then  it 's  all  the  more  surprising  that  you  should 
have  stumbled  into  the  Brasserie  des  Quatre  Vents. 
You  've  altered  very  slightly.  The  world  wags  well 
with  you  ?  You  look  prosperous." 

I  cried  out  some  incoherent  protest.  Afterwards  I 
said :  "  You  know  what  I  want  to  hear.  What  does 
this  mean  ?  " 

He  laughed  nervously.  "Oh,  the  meaning's  clear 
enough.  It  speaks  for  itself." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  I. 

"I'm  pianist  to  the  Brasserie  des  Quatre  Vents. 
You  saw  me  in  the  discharge  of  my  duties." 

"I  don't  understand,"   I  repeated  helplessly. 

"  And  yet  the  inference  is  plain.  What  could  have 
brought  a  man  to  such  a  pass  save  drink  or  evil 
courses  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  trifle,"  I  implored  him. 

"  I  'm  not  trifling.  That 's  the  worst  of  it.  For  I 
don't  drink,  and  I  'm  not  conscious  of  having  pursued 
any  especially  evil  courses." 

"  Well  ?  "  I  questioned.     "  Well  ?  " 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  simply  is  that  I  'm  what 
they  call  a  failure.  I  never  came  off." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  repeated  for  a  third  time. 

"  No  more  do  I,  if  you  come  to  that.  It 's  the  will 
of  Heaven,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  it  can't  puzzle  you 
more  than  it  puzzles  me.  It  seems  contrary  to 
the  whole  logic  of  circumstances,  but  it 's  the  fact." 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  133 

Thus  far  he  had  spoken  listlessly,  with  a  sort 
of  bitter  levity,  an  affectation  of  indifference ;  but 
after  a  little  silence  his  mood  appeared  to  change. 
His  hand  upon  my  arm  tightened  its  grasp,  and 
lie  began  to  speak  rapidly,  feelingly. 

"Do  you  realize  that  it  is  nearly  fifteen  years  since 
we  have  seen  each  other  ?  The  history  of  those 
fifteen  years,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  has  been 
the  history  of  a  single  uninterrupted  ddveine  —  one 
continuous  run  of  ill-luck,  against  every  probability 
of  the  game,  against  every  effort  I  could  make  to 
play  my  cards  effectively.  When  I  started  out,  one 
might  have  thought,  I  had  the  best  of  chances.  I  had 
studied  hard,  I  worked  hard  ;  I  surely  had  as  much  gen- 
eral intelligence,  as  much  special  knowledge,  as  much 
apparent  talent,  as  my  competitors.  And  the  stuff 
I  produced  seemed  good  to  you,  to  my  friends,  and 
not  wholly  bad  to  me.  It  was  musicianly,  it  was 
melodious,  it  was  sincere  ;  the  critics  all  praised  it ; 
but  —  it  never  took  on  !  The  public  would  n't  have 
it.  What  did  it  lack  ?  I  don't  know.  At  last 
I  could  n't  even  get  it  published  —  invisible  ink ! 
And  I  had  a  wife  to  support." 

He  paused  for  a  minute;  then:  "You  see,"  he 
said,  "  we  made  the  mistake,  when  we  were  young,  of 
believing,  against  wise  authority,  that  it  was  in  mor- 
tals to  command  success,  that  he  could  command  it 
who  deserved  it.  We  believed  that  the  race  would 
be  to  the  swift,  the  battle  to  the  strong ;  that  a  man 
was  responsible  for  his  own  destiny,  that  he  'd  get 
what  he  merited.  We  believed  that  honest  labor 
could  n't  go  unrewarded.  An  immense  mistake. 
Success  is  an  affair  of  temperament,  like  faith,  like 


134  GRAY  ROSES. 

love,  like  the  color  of  your  hair.  Oh,  the  old  story 
about  industry,  resolution,  and  no  vices !  I  was  in- 
dustrious, I  was  resolute,  and  I  had  no  more  than  the 
common  share  of  vices.  But  I  had  the  unsuccessful 
temperament;  and  here  I  am.  If  my  motives  had 
been  ignoble  —  but  I  can't  see  that  they  were.  I 
wanted  to  earn  a  decent  living ;  I  wanted  to  justify 
my  existence  by  doing  something  worthy  of  the  world's 
acceptance.  But  the  stars  in  their  courses  fought 
against  me.  I  have  tried  hard  to  convince  myself 
that  the  music  I  wrote  was  rubbish.  It  had  its  faults, 
no  doubt.  It  was  n't  great,  it  was  n't  epoch-making. 
But,  as  music  goes  nowadays,  it  was  jolly  good.  It 
was  a  jolly  sight  better  than  the  average." 

"Oh,  that  is  certain,  that  is  certain,"  I  exclaimed, 
as  he  paused  again. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  it  did  n't  sell,  and  at  last  I  could  n't 
even  get  it  published.  So  then  I  tried  to  find  other 
work.  I  tried  everything.  I  tried  to  teach  —  har- 
mony and  the  theory  of  composition.  I  could  n't  get 
pupils.  So  few  people  want  to  study  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  there  were  good  masters  already  in  the 
place.  If  I  had  known  how  to  play,  indeed  !  But  I 
was  never  better  than  a  fifth-rate  executant ;  I  had 
never  gone  in  for  that ;  my  "  lay  "  was  composition. 
I  could  n't  give  piano  lessons,  I  could  n't  play  in  pub- 
lic—  unless  in  a  gargotte  like  the  hole  we  have  just 
left.  Oh,  I  tried  everything.  I  tried  to  get  musical 
criticism  to  do  for  the  newspapers.  Surely  I  was 
competent  to  do  musical  criticism.  But  no  —  they 
wouldn't  employ  me.  I  had  ill  luck,  ill  luck,  ill 
luck  —  nothing  but  ill  luck,  defeat,  disappointment. 
Was  it  the  will  of  Heaven  ?  I  wondered  what  unfor- 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  135 

givable  sin  I  had  committed  to  be  punished  so.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  like  to  work  and  pray  and  wait, 
day  after  day,  and  watch  day  after  day  come  and  go 
and  bring  you  nothing  ?  Oh,  I  tasted  the  whole  heart- 
sickness  of  hope  deferred;  Giant  Despair  was  my 
constant  bedfellow." 

"But  —  with  your  connections  —  "  I  began. 

"  Oh,  my  connections  !  "  he  cried.  "  There  was  the 
rub.  London  is  the  cruellest  town  in  Europe.  For 
sheer  cold  blood  and  heartlessness  give  Londoners  the 
palm.  I  had  connections  enough  for  the  first  month 
or  so,  and  then  people  found  out  things  that  did  n't 
concern  them.  They  found  out  some  things  that  were 
true,  and  they  imagined  other  things  that  were  false. 
They  wouldn't  have  my  wife;  they  told  the  most 
infamous  lies  about  her;  and  I  wouldn't  have  them. 
Could  I  be  civil  to  people  who  insulted  and  slandered 
her?  I  had  no  connections  in  London,  except  with 
the  under-world.  I  got  down  to  copying  parts  for 
theatrical  orchestras,  and,  working  twelve  hours  a 
day,  earned  about  thirty  shillings  a  week." 

"  You  might  have  come  back  to  Paris." 

"  And  fared  worse.  I  could  n't  have  earned  thirty 
pence  in  Paris.  Mind  you,  the  only  trade  I  had 
learned  was  that  of  a  musical  composer ;  and  I  could  n't 
compose  music  that  people  would  buy.  I  should  have 
starved  as  a  copyist  in  Paris,  where  copyists  are  more 
numerous  and  worse  paid.  Teach  there  ?  But  to  one 
competent  master  of  harmony  in  London  there  are  ten 
in  Paris.  No  ;  it  was  a  hopeless  case." 

"  It  is  incomprehensible  —  incomprehensible,"  said 
I. 

"  But  wait  —  wait  till  you  've  heard  the  end.     One 


136  GRAY  ROSES. 

would  think  I  had  had  enough  —  not  so !  One  would 
think  my  cup  of  bitterness  was  full.  No  fear  !  There 
was  a  stronger  cup  still  a-brewing  for  me.  When  For- 
tune takes  a  grudge  against  a  man,  she  never  lets  up. 
She  exacts  the  uttermost  farthing.  I  was  pretty 
badly  off,  but  I  had  one  treasure  left  —  I  had  Godeli- 
nette.  I  used  to  think  that  she  was  my  compensation. 
I  would  say  to  myself,  ( A  man  can't  have  all  bless- 
ings. How  can  you  expect  others,  when  you  've  got 
her  ? '  And  I  would  accuse  myself  of  ingratitude  for 
complaining  of  my  unsuccess.  Then  she  fell  ill.  My 
God,  how  I  watched  over,  prayed  over  her !  It 
seemed  impossible  —  I  could  not  believe  —  that  she 
would  be  taken  from  me.  Yet,  Harry,  do  you 
know  what  that  poor  child  was  thinking  ?  Do  you 
know  what  her  dying  thoughts  were  —  her  wishes? 
Throughout  her  long  painful  illness  she  was  thinking 
that  she  was  an  obstacle  in  my  way,  a  weight  upon 
me ;  that  if  it  were  n't  for  her,  I  should  get  on,  have 
friends,  a  position;  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
me  if  she  should  die ;  and  she  was  hoping  in  her  poor 
little  heart  that  she  would  n't  get  well !  Oh,  I  know 
it,  I  knew  it  —  and  you  see  me  here  alive.  She  let 
herself  die  for  my  sake  —  as  if  I  could  care  for  any- 
thing without  her.  That 's  what  brought  us  here,  to 
France,  to  Bordeaux  —  her  illness.  The  doctors  said 
she  must  pass  the  spring  out  of  England,  away  from 
the  March  winds,  in  the  South  ;  and  I  begged  and  bor- 
rowed money  enough  to  take  her.  And  we  were  on 
our  way  to  Arcachon  ;  but  when  we  reached  Bordeaux 
she  was  too  ill  to  continue  the  journey,  and  —  she 
died  here." 

We  walked  on  for  some  distance  in  silence,  then  he 


WHEN  I  AM  KING.  137 

added :  "  That  was  four  years  ago.  You  wonder  why 
I  live  to  tell  you  of  it,  why  I  have  n't  cut  my  throat. 
I  don 't  know  whether  it 's  cowardice  or  conscientious 
scruples.  It  seems  rather  inconsequent  to  say  that  I 
believe  in  a  God,  does  n't  it  ?  —  that  I  believe  one's 
1  if e  is  not  one's  own  to  make  an  end  of  ?  Anyhow, 
here  I  am,  keeping  body  and  soul  together  as  musician 
to  a  brasserie-a-femmes.  I  can't  go  back  to  England, 
I  can't  leave  Bordeaux  —  she  's  buried  here.  I  've 
hunted  high  and  low  for  work,  and  found  it  nowhere 
save  in  the  brasserie-a-femines.  With  that,  and  a  little 
copying  now  and  then,  I  manage  to  pay  my  way." 

"  But  your  uncle  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  touch  a  penny  of  his 
money?"  Pair  retorted,  almost  fiercely.  "It  was 
he  who  began  it.  My  wife  let  herself  die.  It  was 
virtual  suicide.  It  was  he  who  created  the  situation 
that  drove  her  to  it." 

"  You  are  his  heir,  though,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  the  estates  are  not  entailed." 

We  had  arrived  at  the  door  of  my  hotel.  "  Well, 
good-night  and  bon  voyage,"  he  said. 

"  You  need  n't  wish  me  bon  voyage,"  I  answered. 
"  Of  course  I  'm  not  leaving  Bordeaux  for  the 
present." 

u  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  You  're  going  on  to  Biarritz 
to-morrow  morning,  as  you  intended." 

And  herewith  began  a  long  and  most  painful  strug- 
gle. I  could  persuade  him  to  accept  no  help  of  any 
sort  from  me.  "What  I  can't  do  for  myself,"  he 
declared,  "  I  '11  do  without.  My  dear  fellow,  all  that 
you  propose  is  contrary  to  the  laws  of  Nature.  One 
man  can't  keep  another  —  it 's  an  impossible  relation. 


138  GRAY  ROSES. 

And  I  won't  be  kept ;  I  won't  be  a  burden.  Besides, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  've  got  past  caring.  The  situa- 
tion you  find  me  in  seems  terrible  to  you  ;  to  me  it 's 
no  worse  than  another.  You  see,  I  'in  hardened  ;  I  've 
got  past  caring." 

"  At  any  rate,"  I  insisted,  "  I  shan't  go  on  to 
Biarritz.  "  I  '11  spend  my  holiday  here,  and  we  can 
see  each  other  every  day.  What  time  shall  we  meet 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"No,  no,  I  can't  meet  you  again.  Don't  ask  me 
to ;  you  mean  it  kindly,  I  know,  but  you  're  mistaken. 
It 's  done  me  good  to  talk  it  all  out  to  you,  but  I  can't 
meet  you  again.  I  've  got  no  heart  for  friendship, 
and  —  you  remind  me  too  keenly  of  many  things." 

"But  if  I  come  to  the  brasserie  to-morrow  night?" 

"  Oh,,  if  you  do  that,  you  '11  oblige  me  to  throw  up 
my  employment  there,  and  hide  from  you.  You 
must  promise  not  to  come  again  —  you  must  respect 
my  wishes." 

"  You  're  cruel,  you  know." 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps.  But  I  think  I  'm  only  reason- 
able. Anyhow,  good-bye."  • 

He  shook  my  hand  hurriedly,  and  moved  off.  What 
could  I  do  ?  I  stood  looking  after  him  till  he  had 
vanished  in  the  night,  with  a  miserable  baffled 
recognition  of  my  helplessness  to  help  him. 


A  RESPONSIBILITY. 


A  RESPONSIBILITY. 

IT  has  been  an  episode  like  a  German  sentence,  with 
its  predicate  at  the  end.  Trifling  incidents  occurred 
at  haphazard,  as  it  seemed,  and  I  never  guessed  they 
were  by  way  of  making  sense.  Then,  this  morning, 
somewhat  of  the  suddenest,  came  the  verb  and  the 
full  stop. 

Yesterday  I  should  have  said  there  was  nothing  to 
tell;  to-day  there  is  too  much.  The  announcement 
of  his  death  has  caused  me  to  review  our  relations, 
with  the  result  of  discovering  my  own  part  to  have 
been  that  of  an  accessory  before  the  fact.  I  did  not 
kill  him  (though,  even  there,  I  'm  not  sure  I  didn't 
lend  a  hand),  but  I  might  have  saved  his  life.  It  is 
certain  that  he  made  me  signals  of  distress  —  faint, 
shy,  tentative,  but  unmistakable  —  and  that  I  pre- 
tended not  to  understand:  just  barely  dipped  my 
colors,  and  kept  my  course.  Oh,  if  I  had  dreamed 
that  his  distress  was  extreme  —  that  he  was  on  the 
point  of  foundering  and  going  down!  However,  that 
does  n't  exonerate  me ;  I  ought  to  have  turned  aside 
to  find  out.  It  was  a  case  of  criminal  negligence. 
That  he,  poor  man,  probably  never  blamed  me,  only 
adds  to  the  burden  on  my  conscience.  He  had  got 
past  blaming  people,  I  dare  say,  and  doubtless  merely 
lumped  me  with  the  rest  —  with  the  sum-total  of 
things  that  made  life  unsupportable.  Yet,  for  a 
moment,  when  we  first  met,  his  face  showed  a  dis- 


142  GRAY  IWSES. 

tinct  glimmering  of  hope;  so  perhaps  there  was  a 
distinct  disappointment.  He  must  have  had  so  many 
disappointments  before  it  came  to  —  what  it  came  to ; 
but  it  would  n't  have  come  to  that  if  he  had  got 
hardened  to  them.  Possibly  they  had  lost  their 
outlines,  and  merged  into  one  dull  general  disap- 
pointment that  was  too  hard  to  bear.  I  wonder 
whether  the  Priest  and  the  Levite  were  smitten  with 
remorse  after  they  had  passed  on.  Unfortunately, 
in  this  instance,  no  good  Samaritan  followed. 

The  bottom  of  our  long  table  d'hote  was  held  by  a 
Frenchman,  a  Normand,  a  giant,  but  a  pallid  and 
rather  flabby  giant,  whose  name,  if  he  had  another 
than  Monsieur,  I  never  heard.  He  professed  to  be 
a  painter,  used  to  sketch  birds  and  profiles  on  the 
back  of  his  menu-card  between  the  courses,  wore 
shamelessly  the  multi-colored  rosette  of  a  foreign 
order  in  his  buttonhole,  and  talked  with  a  good  deal 
of  physiognomy.  I  had  the  corner  seat  at  his  right, 
and  was  flanked  in  turn  by  Miss  Etta  J.  Hicks,  a 
bouncing  young  person  from  Chicago,  beyond  whom, 
like  rabbits  in  a  company  of  foxes,  cowered  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Jordan  P.  Hicks,  two  broken-spirited  American 
parents.  At  Monsieur's  left,  and  facing  me,  sat 
Colonel  Escott,  very  red  and  cheerful;  then  a  young 
man  who  called  the  Colonel  Cornel,  and  came  from 
Dublin,  proclaiming  himself  a  barr'ster,  and  giving 
his  name  as  Flarty,  though  on  his  card  it  was  written 
Flaherty;  and  then  Sir  Richard  Maistre.  After  him, 
a  diminishing  perspective  of  busy  diners  —  for  pur- 
poses of  conversation,  so  far  as  we  were  concerned, 
inhabitants  of  the  Fourth  Dimension. 

Of  our  immediate  constellation,  Sir  Richard  Maistre 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  143 

was  the  only  member  on  whom  the  eye  was  tempted 
to  linger.  The  others  were  obvious  —  simple  equa- 
tions, soluble  "in  the  head."  But  he  called  for  slate 
and  pencil,  offered  materials  for  doubt  and  specula- 
tion, though  it  would  not  have  been  easy  to  tell 
wherein  they  lay.  What  displayed  itself  to  a  cur- 
sory inspection  was  quite  unremarkable  —  simply  a 
decent -looking  young  Englishman,  of  medium  stature, 
with  square-cut  plain  features,  reddish-brown  hair, 
gray  eyes,  and  clothes  and  manners  of  the  usual 
pattern.  Yet,  showing  through  this  ordinary  sur- 
face, there  was  something  cryptic.  For  me,  at  any 
rate,  it  required  a  constant  effort  not  to  stare  at  him. 
I  felt  it  from  the  beginning,  and  I  felt  it  to  the  end 
—  a  teasing  curiosity,  a  sort  of  magnetism  that  drew 
my  eyes  in  his  direction.  I  was  always  on  my  guard 
to  resist  it,  and  that  was  really  the  inception  of  my 
neglect  of  him.  From  I  don't  know  what  stupid 
motive  of  pride,  I  was  anxious  that  he  shouldn't 
discern  the  interest  he  had  excited  in  me;  so  I  paid 
less  ostensible  attention  to  him  than  to  the  others, 
who  excited  none  at  all.  I  tried  to  appear  uncon- 
scious of  him  as  a  detached  personality,  to  treat  him 
as  merely  a  part  of  the  group  as  a  whole.  Then  I 
improved  such  occasions  as  presented  themselves  to 
steal  glances  at  him,  study  him  a  la  derobee  —  groping 
after  the  quality,  whatever  it  was,  that  made  him  a 
puzzle  —  seeking  to  formulate,  to  classify  him. 

Already,  at  the  end  of  my  first  dinner,  he  had 
singled  himself  out  and  left  an  impression.  I  went 
into  the  smoking-room,  and  began  to  wonder,  over 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  cigarette,  who  he  was.  I  had 
not  heard  his  voice;  he  hadn't  talked  much,  and  his 


144  GRAY  ROSES. 

few  observations  had  been  murmured  into  the  ears 
of  his  next  neighbors.  All  the  same,  he  had  left  an 
impression,  and  I  found  myself  wondering  who  he 
was,  the  young  man  with  the  square-cut  features  and 
the  reddish-brown  hair.  I  have  said  that  his  features 
were  square-cut  and  plain,  but  they  were  small  and 
carefully  finished,  and  as  far  as  possible  from  being 
common.  And  his  gray  eyes,  though  not  conspicuous 
for  size  or  beauty,  had  a  character,  an  expression. 
They  said  something  —  something  I  couldn't  per- 
fectly translate,  something  shrewd,  humorous,  even 
perhaps  a  little  caustic,  and  yet  sad;  not  violently, 
not  rebelliously  sad  (I  should  never  have  dreamed 
that  it  was  a  sadness  which  would  drive  him  to 
desperate  remedies),  but  rather  resignedly,  submis- 
sively sad,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  put 
the  best  face  on  a  sorry  business.  This  was  carried 
out  by  a  certain  abruptness,  a  slight  lack  of  suavity, 
in  his  movements,  in  his  manner  of  turning  his  head, 
of  using  his  hands.  It  hinted  a  degree  of  determina- 
tion which,  in  the  circumstances,  seemed  superfluous. 
He  had  unfolded  his  napkin  and  attacked  his  dinner 
with  an  air  of  resolution,  like  a  man  with  a  task 
before  him,  who  mutters,  "Well,  it's  got  to  be  done, 
and  I  '11  do  it."  At  a  hazard,  he  was  two-  or  three- 
and-thirty,  but  below  his  neck  he  looked  older.  He 
was  dressed  like  everybody,  but  his  costume  had, 
somehow,  an  effect  of  soberness  beyond  his  years. 
It  was  decidedly  not  smart,  and  smartness  was  the 
dominant  note  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 

I  was  still  more  or  less  vaguely  ruminating  him, 
in  a  corner  of  the  smoking-room,  on  that  first  even- 
ing, when  I  became  aware  that  he  was  standing  near 


A  RESPONSIBILITY.  145 

me.  As  I  looked  up,  our  eyes  met,  and  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second  fixed  each  other.  It  was  barely 
the  fraction  of  a  second,  but  it  was  time  enough  for 
the  transmission  of  a  message.  I  knew  as  certainly 
as  if  he  had  said  so  that  he  wanted  to  speak,  to  break 
the  ice,  to  scrape  an  acquaintance;  I  knew  that  he 
had  approached  me,  and  was  loitering  in  my  neigh- 
borhood for  that  specific  purpose.  I  don't  know,  I 
have  studied  the  psychology  of  the  moment  in  vain 
to  understand,  why  I  felt  a  perverse  impulse  to  put 
him  off.  I  was  interested  in  him,  I  was  curious 
about  him;  and  there  he  stood,  testifying  that  the 
interest  was  reciprocal,  ready  to  make  the  advances, 
only  waiting  for  a  glance  or  a  motion  of  encourage- 
ment; and  I  deliberately  secluded  myself  behind  my 
coffee-cup  and  my  cigarette  smoke.  I  suppose  it  was 
the  working  of  some  obscure  mannish  vanity  —  of 
what  in  a  woman  would  have  defined  itself  as  coyness 
and  coquetry.  If  he  wanted  to  speak  —  well,  let 
him  speak;  I  wouldn't  help  him.  I  could  realize 
the  processes  of  his  mind  even  more  clearly  than 
those  of  my  own  —  his  desire,  his  hesitancy.  He 
was  too  timid  to  leap  the  barriers;  I  must  open  a 
gate  for  him.  He  hovered  near  me  for  a  minute 
longer,  and  then  drifted  away.  I  felt  his  disappoint- 
ment, his  spiritual  shrug  of  the  shoulders;  and  I 
perceived  rather  suddenly  that  I  was  disappointed 
myself.  I  must  have  been  hoping  all  along  that  he 
would  speak  quand  meme,  and  now  I  was  moved  to 
run  after  him,  to  call  him  back.  That,  however, 
would  imply  a  consciousness  of  guilt,  an  admission 
that  my  attitude  had  been  intentional;  so  I  kept  my 
seat,  making  a  mental  rendezvous  with  him  for  the 
morrow.  10 


146  GRAY  ROSES. 

Between  my  Irish  vis-a-vis,  Flaherty,  and  myself 
there  existed  no  such  strain.  He  presently  sauntered 
up  to  me,  and  dropped  into  conversation  as  easily  as 
if  we  had  been  old  friends. 

"Well,  and  are  you  here  for  your  health  or  your 
entertainment?"  he  began.  "But  I  don't  need  to 
ask  that  of  a  man  who  's  drinking  black  coffee  and 
smoking  tobacco  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  I  'm  the 
only  invalid  at  our  end  of  the  table,  and  I'm  no 
better  than  an  amateur  meself.  It 's  a  barrister's 
throat  I  have  —  I  caught  it  waiting  for  briefs  in  me 
chambers  at  Doblin." 

We  chatted  together  for  a  half -hour  or  so,  and 
before  we  parted  he  had  given  me  a  good  deal  of 
general  information  —  about  the  town,  the  natives, 
the  visitors,  the  sands,  the  golf-links,  the  hunting, 
and,  with  the  rest,  about  our  neighbors  at  table. 

"  Did  ye  notice  the  pink-faced  bald  little  man  at 
me  right?  That 's  Cornel  Escott,  C.B.,  retired.  He 
takes  a  sea-bath  every  morning,  to  live  up  to  the 
letters;  and,  faith,  it's  an  act  of  heroism,  no  less,  in 
weather  the  like  of  this.  Three  weeks  have  I  been 
here,  and  but  wan  day  of  sunshine,  and  the  mercury 
never  above  fifty.  The  other  fellow,  him  at  me  left, 
is  what  you  'd  be  slow  to  suspect  by  the  look  of 
him,  I  '11  go  bail;  and  that's  a  bar'net,  Sir  Richard 
Maistre,  with  a  place  in  Hampshire,  and  ten  thou- 
sand a  year  if  he  's  a  penny.  The  young  lady  beside 
yourself  rejoices  in  the  euphonious  name  of  Hicks, 
and  trains  her  Popper  and  Mommer  behind  her  like 
slaves  in  a  Roman  triumph.  They  're  Americans,  if 
you  must  have  the  truth,  though  I  oughtn't  to  tell  it 
on  them,  for  I  'm  an  Irishman  myself,  and  it 's  not 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  147 

for  the  pot  to  be  bearing  tales  of  the  kettle.  How- 
ever, their  tongues  bewray  them;  so  I've  violated 
no  confidence." 

The  knowledge  that  my  young  man  was  a  baronet 
with  a  place  in  Hampshire  somewhat  disenchanted 
me.  A  baronet  with  a  place  in  Hampshire  left  too 
little  to  the  imagination.  The  description  seemed 
to  curtail  his  potentialities,  to  prescribe  his  orbit, 
to  connote  turnip-fields,  house-parties,  and  a  whole 
system  of  British  commonplace.  Yet,  when,  the 
next  day  at  luncheon,  I  again  had  him  before  me  in 
the  flesh,  my  interest  revived.  Its  lapse  had  been 
due  to  an  association  of  ideas  which  I  now  recognized 
as  unscientific.  A  baronet  with  twenty  places  in 
Hampshire  would  remain  at  the  end  of  them  all  a 
human  being;  and  no  human  being  could  be  finished 
off  in  a  formula  of  half  a  dozen  words.  Sir  Richard 
Maistre,  anyhow,  couldn't  be.  He  was  enigmatic, 
and  his  effect  upon  me  was  enigmatic  too.  Why  did 
I  feel  that  tantalizing  inclination  to  stare  at  him, 
coupled  with  that  reluctance  frankly  to  engage  in 
talk  with  him?  Why  did  he  attack  his  luncheon 
with  that  appearance  of  grim  resolution?  For  a 
minute,  after  he  had  taken  his  seat,  he  eyed  his 
knife,  fork,  and  napkin,  as  a  laborer  might  a  load 
that  he  had  to  lift,  measuring  the  difficulties  he  must 
cope  with;  then  he  gave  his  head  a  resolute  nod,  and 
set  to  work.  To-day,  as  yesterday,  he  said  very 
little,  murmured  an  occasional  remark  into  the  ear 
of  Flaherty,  accompanying  it  usually  with  a  sudden 
short  smile ;  but  he  listened  to  everything,  and  did 
so  with  apparent  appreciation. 

Our  proceedings  were  opened  by  Miss  Hicks,  who 


148  GRAY  ROSES. 

asked  Colonel  Escott,  "Well,  Colonel,  have  you  had 
your  bath  this  morning?" 

The  Colonel  chuckled,  and  answered,  "Oh,  yes  — 
yes,  yes — couldn't  forego  my  bath,  you  know  — 
couldn't  possibly  forego  my  bath." 

"And  what  was  the  temperature  of  the  water?" 
she  continued. 

"Fifty -two  —  fifty- two  —  three  degrees  warmer 
than  the  air  —  three  degrees,"  responded  the  Colonel, 
still  chuckling,  as  if  the  whole  affair  had  been  ex- 
tremely funny. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Flaherty,  I  suppose  you  've  been  to 
Bayonne?" 

"No,  I've  broken  me  habit,  and  not  left  the 
hotel." 

Subsequent  experience  taught  me  that  these  were 
conventional  modes  by  which  the  conversation  was 
launched  every  day,  like  the  preliminary  moves  in 
chess.  We  had  another  ritual  for  dinner;  Miss 
Hicks  then  inquired  if  the  Colonel  had  taken  his 
ride,  and  Flaherty  played  his  game  of  golf.  The 
next  inevitable  step  was  common  to  both  meals. 
Colonel  Escott  would  pour  himself  a  glass  of  the  vin 
ordinaire,  a  jug  of  which  was  set  by  every  plate,  and, 
holding  it  up  to  the  light,  exclaim  with  simulated 
gusto,  "Ah!  Fine  old  wine!  Kemarkably  full  rich 
flavor ! "  At  this  pleasantry  we  would  all  gently 
laugh;  and  the  word  was  free. 

Sir  Richard,  as  I  have  said,  appeared  to  be  an 
attentive  and  appreciative  listener,  not  above  smiling 
at  our  mildest  sallies;  but,  watching  him  out  of  the 
corner  of  an  eye,  I  noticed  that  my  own  observations 
seemed  to  strike  him  with  peculiar  force  —  which  led 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  149 

me  to  talk  at  him.  Wny  not  to  him,  with  him? 
The  interest  was  reciprocal;  he  would  have  liked  a 
dialogue;  he  would  have  welcomed  a  chance  to  com- 
mence one;  and  I  could  at  any  instant  have  given 
him  such  a  chance.  I  talked  at  him,  it  is  true ;  but 
I  talked  with  Flaherty  or  Miss  Hicks,  or  to  the  com- 
pany at  large.  Of  his  separate  identity  he  had  no 
reason  to  believe  me  conscious.  From  a  mixture  of 
motives,  in  which  1 'm  not  sure  that  a  certain 
heathenish  enjoyment  of  his  embarrassment  didn't 
count  for  something,  I  was  determined  that  if  he 
wanted  to  know  me  he  must  come  the  whole  dis- 
tance ;  I  would  n't  meet  him  half-way.  Of  course  I 
had  no  idea  that  it  could  be  a  matter  of  the  faintest 
real  importance  to  the  man.  I  judged  his  feelings  by 
my  own;  and  though  I  was  interested  in  him,  I  shall 
have  conveyed  an  altogether  exaggerated  notion  of 
my  interest  if  you  fancy  it  kept  me  awake  at  night. 
How  was  I  to  guess  that  his  case  was  more  serious, 
—  that  he  was  not  simply  desirous  of  a  little  amusing 
talk,  but  starving,  starving  for  a  little  human  sym- 
pathy, a  little  brotherly  love  and  comradeship?  —  that 
he  was  in  an  abnormally  sensitive  condition  of  mind, 
where  mere  negative  unresponsiveness  could  hurt  him 
like  a  slight  or  a  rebuff? 

In  the  course  of  the  week  I  ran  over  to  Pau,  to  pass 
a  day  with  the  Winchfields,  who  had  a  villa  there. 
When  I  came  back  I  brought  with  me  all  that  they 
(who  knew  everybody)  could  tell  about  Sir  Richard 
Maistre.  He  was  intelligent  and  amiable,  but  the 
shyest  of  shy  men.  He  avoided  general  society, 
frightened  away  perhaps  by  the  British  Mamma,  and 
spent  a  good  part  of  each  year  abroad,  wandering 


150  GRAY  ROSES. 

rather  listlessly  from  town  to  town.  Though  young 
and  rich,  he  was  neither  fast  nor  ambitious :  the 
Members'  entrance  to  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
stage-doors  of  the  music  halls,  were  equally  without 
glamour  for  him ;  and  if  he  was  a  Justice  of  the  Peace 
and  a  Deputy  Lieutenant,  he  had  become  so  through 
the  tacit  operation  of  his  stake  in  the  country.  He 
had  chambers  in  St.  James's  Street,  was  a  member  of 
the  Travellers  Club,  and  played  the  violin — for  an 
amateur  rather  well.  His  brother,  Mortimer  Maistre, 
was  in  diplomacy  —  at  Rio  Janeiro  or  somewhere. 
His  sister  had  married  an  Australian,  and  lived  in 
Melbourne. 

At  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  I  found  his  shyness  was 
mistaken  for  indifference.  He  was  civil  to  everybody, 
but  intimate  with  none.  He  attached  himself  to  no 
party,  paired  off  with  no  individuals.  He  sought  no- 
body. On  the  other  hand,  the  persons  who  went  out 
of  their  way  to  seek  him,  came  back,  as  they  felt,  re- 
pulsed. He  had  been  polite,  but  languid.  These, 
however,  were  not  the  sort  of  persons  he  would  be 
likely  to  care  for.  There  prevailed  a  general  concep- 
tion of  him  as  cold,  unsociable.  He  certainly  walked 
about  a  good  deal  alone  —  you  met  him  on  the  sands, 
on  the  cliffs,  in  the  stiff  little  streets,  rambling  aim- 
lessly, seldom  with  a  companion.  But  to  me  it  was 
patent  that  he  played  the  solitary  from  necessity,  not 
from  choice  —  from  the  necessity  of  his  temperament. 
A  companion  was  precisely  that  which  above  all  things 
his  heart  coveted ;  only  he  did  n't  know  how  to  set 
about  annexing  one.  If  he  sought  nobody,  it  was  be- 
cause he  did  n't  know  how.  This  was  a  part  of  what 
his  eyes  said ;  they  bespoke  his  desire,  his  perplexity, 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  151 

his  lack  of  nerve.  Of  the  people  who  put  themselves 
out  to  seek  him,  there  was  Miss  Hicks ;  there  were  a 
family  from  Leeds,  named  Bunn,  a  father,  mother, 
son,  and  two  redoubtable  daughters,  who  drank  cham- 
pagne with  every  meal,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion,  said  their  say  at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  and 
were  understood  to  be  auctioneers  ;  a  family  from  Bays- 
water  named  Krausskopf.  I  was  among  those  whom 
he  had  marked  as  men  he  would  like  to  fraternize 
with.  As  often  as  our  paths  crossed,  his  eyes  told  me 
that  he  longed  to  stop  and  speak,  and  continue  the 
promenade  abreast.  I  was  under  the  control  of  a 
demon  of  mischief;  I  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in 
eluding  and  baffling  him  —  in  passing  on  with  a  nod. 
It  had  become  a  kind  of  game  ;  I  was  curious  to  see 
whether  he  would  ever  develop  sufficient  hardihood  to 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  After  all,  from  a  conven- 
tional point  of  view,  my  conduct  was  quite  justifiable. 
I  always  meant  to  do  better  by  him  next  time,  and  then 
I  always  deferred  it  to  the  next.  But,  from  a  conven- 
tional point  of  view,  my  conduct  was  quite  unassail- 
able. I  said  this  to  myself  when  I  had  momentary 
qualms  of  conscience.  Now,  rather  late  in  the  day, 
it  strikes  me  that  the  conventional  point  of  view 
should  have  been  readjusted  to  the  special  case.  I 
should  have  allowed  for  his  personal  equation. 

My  cousin  Wilford  came  to  Biarritz  about  this 
time,  stopping  for  a  week,  on  his  way  home  from  a 
tour  in  Spain.  I  could  n't  find  a  room  for  him  at  the 
Hotel  d'Angleterre,  so  he  put  up  at  a  rival  hostelry 
over  the  way  ;  but  he  dined  with  me  on  the  evening  of 
his  arrival,  a  place  being  made  for  him  between  mine 
and  Monsieur's.  He  hadn't  been  at  the  table  five 


152  GRAY  ROSES. 

minutes  before  the  rumor  went  abroad  who  he  was  — 
somebody  had  recognized  him.  Then  those  who 
were  within  reach  of  his  voice  listened  with  all 
their  ears — Colonel  Escott,  Flaherty,  Maistre,  and 
Miss  Hicks,  of  course,  who  even  called  him.  by  name  : 
«  Oh,  Mr.  Wiiford,"  "  Now,  Mr.  Wilford,"  &c.  After 
dinner,  in  the  smoking-room,  a  cluster  of  people  hung 
round  us;  men  with  whom  I  had  no  acquaintance 
came  merrily  up  and  asked  to  be  introduced.  Colonel 
Escott  and  Flaherty  joined  us.  At  the  outskirts  of 
the  group  I  beheld  Sir  Richard  Maistre.  His  eyes 
(without  his  realizing  it  perhaps)  begged  me  to  invite 
him,  to  present  him;  and  I  affected  not  to  under- 
stand !  This  is  one  of  the  little  things  I  find  hardest 
to  forgive  myself.  My  whole  behavior  towards  the 
young  man  is  now  a  subject  of  self-reproach ;  if  it  had 
been  different,  who  knows  that  the  tragedy  of  yester- 
day would  ever  have  happened  ?  If  I  had  answered 
his  timid  overtures,  walked  with  him,  talked  with 
him,  cultivated  his  friendship,  given  him  mine,  estab- 
lished a  kindly  human  relation  with  him,  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  he  might  not  have  got  to  such  a  desper- 
ate pass,  that  I  might  have  cheered  him,  helped  him, 
saved  him.  I  feel  it  especially  when  I  think  of  Wil- 
ford. His  eyes  attested  so  much;  he  would  have  en- 
joyed meeting  him  so  keenly.  No  doubt  he  was 
already  fond  of  the  man,  had  loved  him  through  his 
books,  like  so  many  others.  If  I  had  introduced  him  ? 
If  we  had  taken  him  with  us  the  next  morning  on  our 
excursion  to  Cambo  ?  Included  him  occasionally  in 
our  smokes  and  parleys  ? 

Wilford  left  for  England  without  dining  again  at 
the  Hotel  d'Angleterre.     We  were  busy  "  doing  "  the 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  153 

country,  and  never  chanced  to  be  at  Biarritz  at  the 
dinner  hour.  During  that  week  I  scarcely  saw  Sir 
Richard  Maistre. 

Another  little  circumstance  that  rankles  especially 
now  would  have  been  ridiculous  except  for  the  way 
things  have  ended.  It  is  n't  easy  to  tell  —  it  was  so 
petty  and  I  am  so  ashamed.  Colonel  Escott  had  been 
abusing  London,  describing  it  as  the  least  beautiful  of 
the  capitals  of  Europe,  comparing  it  unfavorably  to 
Paris,  Vienna,  and  St.  Petersburg.  I  took  up  the 
cudgels  in  its  defence,  mentioned  its  atmosphere,  its 
tone  ;  Paris,  Vienna,  St.  Petersburg  were  lyric,  Lon- 
don was  epic ;  and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  Then, 
shifting  from  the  aesthetic  to  the  utilitarian,  I  argued 
that  of  all  great  towns  it  was  the  healthiest,  its  death- 
rate  was  lowest.  Sir  Richard  Maistre  had  followed 
my  dissertation  attentively,  and  with  a  countenance 
that  signified  approval ;  and  when,  with  my  reference 
to  the  death-rate,  I  paused,  he  suddenly  burned  his 
ships.  He  looked  me  full  in  the  eye,  and  said, 
"  Thirty-seven,  I  believe  ?  "  His  heightened  color,  a 
nervous  movement  of  the  lip,  betrayed  the  effort  it 
had  cost  him  ;  but  at  last  he  had  done  it  —  screwed 
his  courage  to  the  stick  ing-place,  and  spoken.  And  I 
—  I  can  never  forget  it  —  I  grow  hot  when  I  think  of 
it  —  but  I  was  possessed  by  a  devil.  His  eyes  hung 
on  my  face,  awaiting  my  response,  pleading  for  a  cue. 
"Go  on,"  they  urged.  "I  have  taken  the  first,  the 
difficult  step  —  make  the  next  smoother  for  me." 
And  I  —  I  answered  lackadaisically  with  just  a  casual 
glance  at  him,  "  I  don't  know  the  figures,"  and  ab- 
sorbed myself  in  my  viands. 

Two  or  three  days  later  his  place  was  filled  by  a 


154  GRAY  ROSES. 

stranger,  and  Flaherty  told  me  that  he  had  left  for 
the  Riviera. 

All  this  happened  last  March  at  Biarritz.  I  never 
saw  him  again  till  three  weeks  ago.  It  was  one  of 
those  frightfully  hot  afternoons  in  July ;  I  had  come 
out  of  my  club,  and  was  walking  up  St.  James's  Street, 
towards  Piccadilly ;  he  was  moving  in  an  opposite 
sense;  and  thus  we  approached  each  other.  He 
did  n't  see  me,  however,  till  we  had  drawn  rather  near 
to  a  conjunction  :  then  he  gave  a  little  start  of  recog- 
nition, his  eyes  brightened,  his  pace  slackened,  his 
right  hand  prepared  to  advance  itself  —  and  I  bowed 
slightly,  and  pursued  my  way !  Don't  ask  why  I  did 
it.  It  is  enough  to  confess  it  without  having  to  ex- 
plain it.  I  glanced  backwards,  by  and  by,  over  my 
shoulder.  He  was  standing  where  I  had  met  him, 
half  turned  round,  and  looking  after  me.  But  when 
he  saw  that  I  was  observing  him,  he  hastily  shifted 
about,  and  continued  his  descent  of  the  street. 

That  was  only  three  weeks  ago.  Only  three  weeks 
ago  I  still  had  it  in  my  power  to  act.  I  am  sure  —  I 
don't  know  why  I  am  sure,  but  I  am  sure  —  that  I 
could  have  deterred  him.  For  all  that  one  can  gather 
from  the  brief  note  he  left  behind,  it  seems  he  had  no 
special,  definite  motive ;  he  had  met  with  no  losses, 
got  into  no  scrape ;  he  was  simply  tired  and  sick  of 
life  and  of  himself.  "  I  have  no  friends,"  he  wrote. 
"Nobody  will  care.  People  don't  like  me;  people 
avoid  me.  I  have  wondered  why ;  I  have  tried  to 
watch  myself  and  discover;  I  have  tried  to  be  decent. 
I  suppose  it  must  be  that  I  emit  a  repellent  fluid ;  I 
suppose  I  am  a  •'  bad  sort.'  "  He  had  a  morbid  notion 
that  people  did  n't  like  him,  that  people  avoided  him ! 


A   RESPONSIBILITY.  155 

Oh,  to  be  sure,  there  were  the  Bunns  and  the  Krauss- 
kopfs  and  their  ilk,  plentiful  enough :  but  he  under- 
stood what  it  was  that  attracted  them.  Other  people, 
the  people  he  could  have  liked,  kept  their  distance  — 
were  civil,  indeed,  but  reserved.  He  wanted  bread, 
and  they  gave  him  a  stone.  It  never  struck  him,  I 
suppose,  that  they  attributed  the  reserve  to  him.  But 
I  —  I  knew  that  his  reserve  was  only  an  effect  of  his 
shyness;  I  knew  that  he  wanted  bread:  and  that 
knowledge  constituted  my  moral  responsibility.  I 
did  n't  know  that  his  need  was  extreme ;  but  I  have 
tried  in  vain  to  absolve  myself  with  the  reflection.  I 
ought  to  have  made  inquiries.  When  I  think  of  that 
afternoon  in  St.  James's  Street  —  only  three  weeks  ago 
—  I  feel  like  an  assassin.  The  vision  of  him,  as  he 
stopped  and  looked  after  me  —  I  can't  banish  it.  Why 
didn't  some  good  spirit  move  ine  to  turn  back  and 
overtake  him? 

It  is  so  hard  for  the  mind  to  reconcile  itself  to  the 
irretrievable.  I  can't  shake  off  a  sense  that  there  is 
something  to  be  done.  I  can't  realize  that  it  is  too 
late. 


CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN. 


CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN. 


THAT  he  should  not  have  guessed  it  from  the  begin- 
ning seems  odd,  if  you  like,  until  one  stops  to  con- 
sider the  matter  twice ;  then,  I  think,  one  sees  that 
after  all  there  was  no  shadow  of  a  reason  why  he 
should  have  done  so,  —  one  sees,  indeed,  that  even  had 
a  suspicion  of  the  truth  at  any  time  crossed  his  mind, 
he  would  have  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  scouting  it 
as  nonsense.  It  is  obvious  to  us  from  the  first  word, 
because  we  know  instinctively  that  otherwise  there 
would  be  no  story ;  it  is  that  which  knits  a  mere  se- 
quence of  incidents  into  a  coherent,  communicable 
whole.  But,  to  his  perceptions,  the  thing  never  pre- 
sented itself  as  a  story  at  all.  It  was  n't  an  anecdote 
which  somebody  had  buttonholed  him  to  tell ;  it  was 
an  adventure  in  which  he  found  himself  launched,  an 
experience  to  be  enjoyed  bit  by  bit,  as  it  befell,  but 
in  no  wise  suggestive  of  any  single  specific  climax. 
What  earthly  hint  had  he  received  from  which  to 
infer  the  identity  of  the  two  women?  On  the  con- 
trary, were  n't  the  actions  of  the  one  totally  incon- 
sistent with  what  everybody  assured  him  was  the 
manner  of  life  —  with  what  the  necessities  of  the  case 
led  him  to  believe  would  be  the  condition  of  spirit  — 
of  the  other  ?  If  the  tale  were  to  be  published,  the 
fun  would  lie,  not  in  attempting  to  mystify  the  reader, 


160  GRAY  ROSES. 

but  in  watching  with  him  the  mystification  of  the 
hero,  —  in  showing  how  he  played  at  hoodman-blmrl 
with  his  destiny,  and  how  surprised  he  was,  when,  the 
bandage  stripped  from  his  eyes,  he  saw  whom  he  had 
caught. 


II 

On  that  first  morning, — the  first  after  his  arrival 
at  Saint-Graal,  and  the  first,  also,  of  the  many  on 
which  they  encountered  each  other  in  the  forest,  —  he 
was  bent  upon  a  sentimental  pilgrimage  to  Granjo- 
laye.  He  was  partly  obeying,  partly  seeking,  an  emo- 
tion. His  mind,  inevitably,  was  full  of  old  memories  ; 
the  melancholy  by  which  they  were  attended  he  found 
distinctly  pleasant,  and  was  inclined  to  nurse.  To 
revisit  the  scene  of  their  boy-and-girl  romance,  would 
itself  be  romantic.  In  a  little  while  he  would  come 
to  the  park  gates,  and  could  look  up  the  long  straight 
avenue  to  the  chateau,  —  there  where,  when  they  were 
children,  twenty  years  ago,  he  and  she  had  played  so 
earnestly  at  being  married,  burning  for  each  other  with 
one  of  those  strange,  inarticulate  passions  that  almost 
every  childhood  knows ;  and  where  now,  worse  than 
widowed,  she  withheld  herself,  in  silent,  mysterious, 
tragical  seclusion. 

And  then  he  heard  the  rhythm  of  a  horse's  hoofs ; 
and  looking  forward,  down  the  green  pathway,  be- 
tween the  two  walls  of  forest,  he  saw  a  lady  cantering 
towards  him. 

In  an  instant  she  had  passed ;  and  it  took  a  little 
while  for  the  blur  of  black  and  white  that  she  had 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  161 

flashed  upon  his  retina  to  clear  into  an  image,  — 
which  even  then,  from  under-exposure,  was  obscure 
and  piecemeal :  a  black  riding-habit,  of  some  flexile 
stuff  that  fluttered  in  a  multitude  of  pretty  curves 
and  folds  ;  a  small  black  hat,  a  toque,  set  upon  a 
loosely  fastened  mass  of  black  hair ;  a  face  intensely 
white  —  a  softly  rounded  face,  but  intensely  white; 
soft  full  lips,  singularly  scarlet ;  and  large  eyes,  very 
dark. 

It  was  not  much,  certainly,  but  it  persisted.  The 
impression,  defective  as  I  give  it,  had  been  pleasing ; 
an  impression  of  warm  femininity,  of  graceful  mo- 
tion. It  had  had  the  quality,  besides,  of  the  unex- 
pected and  the  fugitive,  and  the  advantage  of  a  sylvan 
background.  Anyhow,  it  pursued  him.  He  went  on 
to  his  journey's  end ;  stopped  before  the  great  gilded 
grille,  with  its  multiplicity  of  scrolls  and  flourishes, 
its  coronets  and  interlaced  initials  ;  gazed  up  the  shad- 
owy aisle  of  'plane-trees  to  the  bit  of  castle  gleaming 
in  the  sun  at  the  end ;  remembered  the  child  Helene, 
and  how  he  and  she  had  loved  each  other  there,  a 
hundred  years  ago ;  and  thought  of  the  exiled,  worse 
than  widowed  woman  immured  there  now :  but  it  was 
mere  remembering,  mere  thinking,  it  was  mere  cere- 
bration. The  emotion  he  had  looked  for  did  not  come. 
An  essential  part  of  him  was  elsewhere,  —  following 
the  pale  lady  in  the  black  riding-habit,  trying  to  get  a 
clearer  vision  of  her  face,  blaming  him  for  his  inat- 
tention when  she  had  been  palpable  before  him,  won- 
dering who  she  was. 

"If  she  should  prove  to  be  a  neighbor,  I  sha'n't 
bore  myself  so  dreadfully  down  here  after  all,"  he 
thought.  "I  wonder  if  I  shall  meet  her  again  as  I 

11 


162  GRAY  ROSES. 

go  home."  She  would  very  likely  be  returning  the 
way  she  had  gone.  But,  though  he  loitered,  he  did 
not  meet  her  again.  He  met  nobody.  It  was,  in 
some  measure,  the  attraction  of  that  lonely  forest 
lane  that  one  almost  never  did  meet  anybody  in  it. 


Ill 


At  Saint-Graal  Andre  was  waiting  to  lunch  with 
him. 

ft  When  we  were  children,"  Paul  wrote  in  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Winchfield,  "  Andre,  our  gardener's  son,  and 
I  were  as  intimate  as  brothers,  he  being  the  only  com- 
panion of  my  sex  and  age  the  neighborhood  afforded. 
But  now,  after  a  separation  of  twenty  years,  Andre, 
who  has  become  our  cure,  insists  upon  treating  me 
with  distance.  He  won't  waive  the  fact  that  I  am  the 
lord  of  the  manor,  and  calls  me  relentlessly  Monsieur. 
I  've  done  everything  to  entice  him  to  unbend,  but  his 
backbone  is  of  granite.  From  the  merriest  of  mischief- 
loving  youngsters,  he  has  hardened  into  the  solemnest 
of  square-toes,  with  such  a  long  upper-lip,  and  man- 
ners as  stiff  as  the  stuff  of  his  awful  best  cassock, 
which  he  always  buckles  on  prior  to  paying  me  a 
visit.  Whatever  is  a  poor  young  man  to  do  ?  At 
our  first  meeting,  after  my  arrival,  I  fell  upon  his 
neck,  and  thee-and-thou'd  him,  as  of  old  time;  he  re- 
pulsed me  with  a  vous  italicized.  At  last  I  demanded 
reason.  '  Why  will  you  treat  me  with  this  inexorable 
respect  ?  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ?  What 
can  I  do  to  forfeit  it  ? '  II  devint  cramoisi  (in  the 
traditional  phrase)  and  stared.  —  This  is  what  it  is  to 
come  back  to  the  home  of  your  infancy." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  163 

Andre,  in  his  awful  best  cassock,  was  waiting  on 
the  terrace.  It  was  on  the  terrace  that  Paul  had  or- 
dered luncheon  to  be  served.  The  terrace  at  Saint- 
Graal  is  a  very  jolly  place.  It  stretches  the  whole 
length  of  the  southern  fa9ade  of  the  house,  and  is 
generously  broad.  It  is  paved  with  great  lozenge- 
shaped  slabs  of  marble,  stained  in  delicate  pinks  and 
grays  with  lichens ;  and  a  marble  balustrade  borders 
it,  overgrown,  the  columns  half  uprooted  and  twisted 
from  the  perpendicular,  by  an  aged  wistaria-vine,  with 
a  trunk  as  stout  as  a  tree's.  Seated  there,  one  can 
look  off  over  miles  of  richly-timbered  country,  dotted 
with  white-walled  villages,  and  traversed  by  the  Nive 
and  the  Adour,  to  the  wry  masses  of  the  Pyrenees, 
purple  curtains  hiding  Spain. 

Here,  under  an  awning,  the  table  was  set,  gay  with 
white  linen  and  glistening  glass  and  silver,  a  centre- 
piece of  flowers  and  jugs  of  red  and  yellow  wine. 
The  wistaria  was  in  blossom,  a  world  of  color  and 
fragrance,  shaken  at  odd  moments  by  the  swift  dart- 
ings  of  innumerable  lizards.  The  sun  shone  hot  and 
clear ;  the  still  air,  as  you  touched  it,  felt  like  velvet. 

"  Oh,  what  a  heavenly  place,  what  a  heavenly  day!" 
cried  Paul;  "it  only  needs  a  woman."  And  then, 
meeting  Andre's  eye,  he  caught  himself  up,  with  a 
gesture  of  contrition.  "I  beg  a  thousand  pardons. 
I  forgot  your  cloth.  If  you,"  he  added,  "would  cnly 
forget  it  too,  what  larks  we  might  have  together. 
Allons,  a  table." 

And  they  sat  down. 

If  Paul  had  sincerely  wished  to  forfeit  Andrews  re- 
spect, he  could  scarcely  have  employed  more  effica- 
cious means  to  do  so,  than  his  speech  and  conduct 


164  GRAY  ROSES. 

throughout  the  meal  that  followed.  You  know  how 
flippant,  how  "  fly-away,"  he  can  be  when  the  mood 
seizes  him,  how  whole-heartedly  he  can  play  the  fool. 
To-day  he  really  behaved  outrageously;  and,  since  the 
priest  maintained  a  straight  countenance,  I  think  the 
wonder  is  that  he  did  n't  excommunicate  him. 

"I  remember  you  were  a  teetotaller,  Andre",  when 
you  were  young,"  his  host  began,  pushing  a  decanter 
towards  him. 

"  That,  monsieur,  was  because  my  mother  wished 
it,  and  my  father  was  a  drunkard,"  Andre  answered 
bluntly.  "  Since  my  father's  death,  I  have  taken  wine 
in  moderation."  He  filled  his  glass. 

"  I  remember  once  I  cooked  some  chestnuts  over  a 
spirit-stove,  and  you  refused  to  touch  them,  on  the 
ground  that  they  were  alcoholic." 

"  That  would  have  been  from  a  confusion  of  thought," 
the  cure  explained,  with  never  a  smile.  "  But  it  was 
better  to  err  on  the  side  of  scrupulosity  than  on  that 
of  self-indulgence." 

"Ah,  that  depends.  That  depends  on  whether  the 
pleasure  you  got  from  your  renunciation  equalled  that 
you  might  have  got  from  the  chestnuts." 

"  You  're  preaching  pure  Paganism." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  denying  I  'm  a  Pagan  —  in  my 
amateurish  way.  Let  me  give  you  some  asparagus. 
Do  you  think  a  man  can  be  saved  who  smokes 
cigarettes  between  the  courses  ?  " 

"  Saved  ?  "  questioned  Andre.  "What  have  cigar- 
ettes to  do  with  a  man's  salvation  ?  " 

"  It  ?s  a  habit  I  learned  in  Kussia.  I  feared  it  might 
relate  itself  in  some  way  to  the  Schism."  And  he  lit 
a  ciga.rette.  "  I  'm  always  a  rigid  Catholic  when  I  'm 
in  France." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  165 

"  And  when  you  're  in  England  ?  " 

"  Oh,  one  goes  in  for  local  color,  for  picturesque- 
ness,  don't  you  know.  The  Church  of  England's 
charmingly  overgrown  with  ivy.  And  besides,  they  're 
going  to  disestablish  it.  One  must  make  the  most  of 
it  while  it  lasts.  Tell  me  —  why  can  you  never  get 
decent  brioches  except  in  Catholic  countries  ?  " 

"  Is  that  a  fact  ?  " 

"  I  swear  it." 

"It's  very  singular,"  said  Andre. 

"It's  only  one  of  the  many  odd  things  a  fellow 
learns  from  travel.  —  Hush  !  Wait  a  moment." 

He  rose  hastily,  and  made  a  dash  with  his  hand  at 
the  tail  of  a  lizard  that  was  hanging  temptingly  out 
from  a  bunch  of  wistaria  leaves.  But  the  lizard  was 
too  quick  for  him.  With  a  whisk,  it  had  disappeared. 
He  sank  back  into  his  chair,  sighing.  "  It 's  always 
like  that.  They  '11  never  keep  still  long  enough  to  let 
me  catch  them.  What 's  the  use  of  a  university  educa- 
tion and  a  cosmopolitan  culture,  if  you  can't  catch 
lizards  ?  Do  you  think  they  have  eyes  in  the  backs 
of  their  heads  ?  " 

Andre  stared. 

"  Oh,  I  see.  You  think  I  'm  frivolous,"  Paul  said 
plaintively.  "But  you  ought  to  have  seen  me  an 
hour  or  two  ago." 

Andre's  eyes  asked,  "  Why  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  was  plunged  in  all  the  most  appropriate 
emotions  —  shedding  floods  of  tears  over  my  lost 
childhood  and  my  misspent  youth.  Don't  you  like 
to  have  a  good  cry  now  and  then  ?  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
literal  tears,  of  course ;  only  spiritual  ones.  For  the 
letter  killeth,  but  the  spirit  giveth  life.  I  walked 
over  to  Granjolaye." 


166  GRAY  ROSES. 


Andre  looked  surprise.  "  To  Gran jol aye  ?  Have 
you  —  were  you  —  " 

He  hesitated,  but  Paul  understood.  "  Have  you 
heard  from  her  ?  Were  you  invited  ?  "  "  Oh,  dear, 
no,"  he  answered.  "  No  such  luck.  Not  to  the 
Chateau,  only  to  the  gates  —  the  East  Gate."  (The 
principal  entrance  to  the  home  part  of  Granjolaye  is 
the  South  Gate,  which  opens  upon  the  Route  Departe- 
mentale.)  "  I  stood  respectfully  outside,  and  looked 
through  the  grating  of  the  grille.  I  walked  through 
the  forest,  by  the  Sentier  des  Contrebandiers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Andre. 

"  And  on  my  way  what  do  you  suppose  I  met  ?  " 

"A  —  a  viper,"  responded  Andre.  "  The  hot 
weather  is  bringing  them  out.  I  killed  two  in  iny 
garden  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  thing !  What  did  you  want  to 
kill  the  poor  young  creatures  for  ?  And  then  to  boast 
of  it !  —  But  no,  not  a  viper.  A  lady." 

"  A  lady  ?  " 

"Yes  —  a  real  lady;  she  wore  gloves.  She  was  rid- 
ing. I  hope  you  won't  think  I  'm  asking  impertinent 
questions,  but  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me  who  she  is." 

"  A  lady  riding  in  the  Sentier  des  Contrebandiers  ?  " 
Andre  repeated  incredulously. 

"  She  looked  like  one.  Of  course  I  may  have  been 
deceived.  I  didn't  hear  her  speak.  Do  you  think 
she  was  a  cook  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  any  one  ever  rode  in  the  Sentier 
des  Contrebaudiers." 

"  Oh,  for  that,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor.  A 
lady  —  or  say  a  female  —  in  a  black  riding-habit ; 
dark  hair  and  eyes ;  very  pale,  with  red  lips  and 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  167 

things.  Oh,  1 'm  not  trying  to  impose  upon  you. 
It  was  about  half  a  mile  this  side  of  where  the  path 
skirts  the  road." 

"  You  might  stop  in  the  Sentier  des  Contrebandiers 
from  January  to  December  and  not  meet  a  soul,"  said 
Andre. 

"  Ah,  I  see.  There  's  no  convincing  you.  Sceptic  ! 
And  yet,  twenty  years  ago,  you  'd  have  been  pretty 
sure  to  meet  a  certain  couple  of  small  boys  there, 
would  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Si  fait,"  assented  Andre.  "  We  went  there  a 
good  deal.  But  we  were  privileged.  The  only  boys 
in  this  country  now  are  peasants'  children,  and  they 
have  no  leisure  for  wandering  in  the  wood.  When 
they  're  not  at  school,  they  're  working  in  the  fields. 
As  for  their  elders,  the  path  is  rough  and  circuitous ; 
the  high  road 's  smoother  and  shorter,  no  matter 
where  you  're  bound.  Since  our  time,  I  doubt  if 
twenty  people  have  passed  that  way." 

"  That  argues  ill  for  people's  taste.  The  place 
is  lovely.  Under  foot,  it 's  quite  overgrown  with 
mosses  ;  and  the  branches  interlace  overhead.  Where 
the  sun  filters  through,  you  get  adorable  effects  qf 
light  and  shadow.  It 's  fearfully  romantic ;  perfect 
for  making  love  in,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Oh,  if  all 
the  women  hereabouts  had  n't  such  hawk-like  noses ! 
You  see,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  here  in  1814. 
—  No  ?  He  was  n't  ?  I  thought  I  'd  read  he  was.  — 
Ah,  well,  he  was  just  over  the  border.  But  my  lady 
of  this  morning  had  n't  a  hawk-like  nose.  I  can't 
quite  remember  what  style  of  nose  she  did  have,  but 
it  was  n't  hawk-like.  I  say,  frankly,  as  between  old 
friends,  have  you  any  notion  who  she  was  ?  " 


168  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  What  kind  of  horse  had  she  ?  " 

"  Ah,  there !  "  cried  Paul,  with  a  despairing  gesture. 
"  You  've  touched  my  vulnerable  point.  I  never 
shall  have  any  memory  for  horses.  I  think  it  was 
black  —  no,  brown  —  no,  gray  —  no,  green.  Oh,  what 
am  I  saying  ?  I  can't  remember.  Do  —  do  you 
make  it  an  essential  ?  " 

"  She  might  have  been  from  Bayonne." 

"  Who  rides  from  Bayonne  ?  Fancy  a  Bayonnaise 
on  a  horse  !  They  're  all  busy  in  their  shops." 

"  You  forget  the  military.  She  may  have  been  the 
wife  of  an  officer." 

"  Oh,  horror  !  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  Then  she 
must  have  been  frowsy  and  provincial,  after  all ;  and 
I  thought  her  so  smart  and  distinguished-looking  and 
everything." 

"  Or  perhaps  an  Englishwoman  from  Biarritz. 
They  sometimes  ride  out  as  far  as  this." 

"  Dear  Andre,  if  she  were  English,  I  should  have 
known  it  at  a  glance  —  and  there  the  matter  would 
have  rested.  I  have  at  least  a  practised  eye  for 
Englishwomen.  I  have  n't  lived  half  my  life  in  Eng- 
land without  learning  something." 

"  Well,  there  are  none  but  English  at  Biarritz  at 
this  season." 

"  She  was  never  English.  Don't  try  to  bully  me. 
Besides,  she  evidently  knew  the  country.  Otherwise, 
how  could  she  have  found  the  Sentier  des  Contre- 
bandiers  ?  —  She  was  n't  from  Granjolaye  ?  " 

"  There  's  no  one  at  Granjolaye  save  the  Queen 
herself." 

"Deceiver!  Manuela  told  me  last  night.  She  has 
her  little  Court,  her  maids-of-honor.  I  think  my 
inconnue  looked  like  a  maid-of-honor." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  169 

"She  has  her  aunt,  old  Mademoiselle  Henriette, 
and  a  couple  of  German  women,  countesses  or  baron- 
esses or  something,  with  unpronounceable  names." 

"I  can't  believe  she's  German.  Still,  I  suppose 
there  are  some  Christian  Germans.  Perhaps.  .  .  ." 

"  They  're  both  middle-aged.  Past  fifty,  I  should 
think." 

"  Oh.  —  Ah,  well,  that  disposes  of  them.  But  how 
do  you  know  her  Majesty  has  n't  a  friend,  a  guest, 
staying  with  her  ?  " 

"  It 's  possible,  but  most  unlikely,  seeing  the  close 
retirement  in  which  she  lives.  She 's  never  once 
gone  beyond  her  garden  since  she  came  back  there, 
three,  four  years  ago ;  nor  received  any  visitors. 
Personne  —  not  the  Bishop  of  Bayonne  nor  the  Sous- 
Prefet,  not  even  feu  Monsieur  le  Comte,  though  they 
all  called,  as  a  matter  of  civility.  She  has  her  private 
chaplain.  If  a  guest  had  arrived  at  Granjolaye,  the 
whole  country  would  know  it  and  talk  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  see  what  you  're  trying  to  insinuate,"  cried 
Paul.  "  You  're  trying  to  insinuate  that  she  came 
from  Chateau  Yroulte."  That  was  the  next  nearest 
country-house. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Andre.  "Chateau 
Yroulte  has  been  shut  up-  and  uninhabited  these  two 
years  —  ever  since  the  death  of  old  Monsieur  Raoul. 
It  was  bought  by  a  Spanish  Jew ;  but  he  's  never 
lived  in  it  and  never  let  it." 

"  Well,  then,  where  did  she  come  from  ?  Not  out 
of  the  Fourth  Dimension  ?  Who  was  she  ?  Not  a 
wraith,  an  apparition  ?  Why  will  you  entertain  such 
weird  conjectures  ?  " 

"  She  must  have  come  from  Bayonne.  An  officer's 
wife,  beyond  a  doubt." 


170  GRAY  ROSES. 

"Oh,  you're  perfectly  remorseless,"  sighed  Paul, 
and  changed  the  subject.  But  he  was  unconvinced. 
Officers'  wives,  in  garrison  towns  like  Bayonne,  had, 
in  his  experience,  always  been,  as  he  expressed  it, 
frowsy  and  provincial. 


IV 

One  would  think,  by  this  time,  the  priest,  poor 
man,  had  earned  a  moment  of  mental  rest ;  but  Paul's 
thirst  for  knowledge  was  insatiable.  He  began  to 
ply  him  with  questions  about  the  Queen.  And  though 
Andre  could  tell  him  very  little,  and  though  he  had 
heard  all  that  the  night  before  from  Manuela,  it 
interested  him  curiously  to  hear  it  repeated. 

It  amounted  to  scarcely  more  than  a  single  meagre 
fact.  A  few  months  after  the  divorce,  she  had  re- 
turned to  Granjolaye,  arid  she  had  never  once  been 
known  to  set  her  foot  beyond  the  limits  of  her  garden 
from  that  day  to  this.  She  had  arrived  at  night, 
attended  by  her  two  German  ladies-in-waiting.  A 
carriage  had  met  her  at  the  railway  station  in  Bay- 
onne, and  set  her  down  at  the  doors  of  her  Chateau, 
where  her  aunt>  old  Mademoiselle  Henriette,  awaited 
her.  What  manner  of  life  she  led  there,  nobody  had 
the  poorest  means  of  discovering.  Her  own  servants 
(tongue-tied  by  fear  or  love)  could  not  be  got  to 
speak ;  and  from  the  eyes  of  all  outsiders  she  was 
sedulously  screened.  Paul  could  imagine  her,  in  her 
great  humiliation,  solitary  among  the  ruins  of  her 
high  destiny,  hiding  her  wounds ;  too  sensitive  to 
face  the  curiosity,  too  proud  to  brook  the  pity,  of  the 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  Ill 

world.  She  seemed  to  him  a  very  grandiose  and 
tragic  figure,  and  he  lost  himself  musing  of  her  — 
her  with  whom  he  had  played  at  being  married,  when 
they  were  children  here,  so  long,  so  long  ago.  She 
was  the  daughter,  the  only  child  and  heiress,  of  the 
last  Due  de  la  Granjolaye  de  Eavanches,  —  the  same 
nobleman  of  whom  it  was  told  that  when  Louis  Napo- 
leon, meaning  to  be  gracious,  said  to  him,  "  You  bear 
a  great  name,  Monsieur,"  he  had  answered  sweetly, 
"  The  greatest  of  all,  I  think."  It  is  certain  he  was 
the  head  of  one  of  the  most  illustrious  houses  in  the 
noblesse  of  Europe,  descended  directly  and  legiti- 
mately, through  the  Bourbons,  from  Saint  Louis  of 
France ;  and,  to  boot,  he  was  immensely  rich,  owning 
(it  was  said)  half  the  iron  mines  in  the  north  of  Spain, 
as  well  as  a  great  part  of  the  city  of  Bayonne.  Paul's 
grandmother,  the  Comtesse  de  Louvance,  was  his  next 
neighbor.  Paul  remembered  him  vaguely  as  a  tall, 
drab,  mild-mannered  man,  with  a  receding  chin,  and 
a  soft,  rather  piping  voice,  who  used  to  tip  him,  and 
have  him  over  a  good  deal  to  stay  at  Granjolaye. 

On  the  death  of  Madame  de  Louvance,  the  property 
of  Saint-Graal  had  passed  to  her  son,  Edmond, — 
Andre's  feu  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Edmond  rarely 
lived  there,  and  never  asked  his  sister  or  her  boy 
there;  whence,  twenty  years  ago,  at  the  respective 
ages  of  thirteen  and  eleven,  Paul  and  Helene  had 
vanished  from  each  other's  ken.  But  Edmond  never 
married,  either;  and  when,  last  winter,  he  died,  he 
left  a  will  making  Paul  his  heir.  Of  Helene's  later 
history  Paul  knew  as  much  as  all  the  world  knows, 
and  no  more  —  so  much,  that  is,  as  one  could  gather 
from  newspapers  and  public  rumor.  He  knew  of  her 


172  GRAY  ROSES. 

father's  death,  whereby  she  had  become  absolute  mis- 
tress of  his  enormous  fortune.  He  knew  of  her 
princely  marriage,  and  of  her  elevation  by  the  old 
king  to  her  husband's  rank  of  Royal  Highness.  He 
knew  of  that  swift  series  of  improbable  deaths  which 
had  culminated  in  her  husband's  accession  to  the 
throne,  and  how  she  had  been  crowned  Queen  Consort. 
And  then  he  knew  that  three  or  four  years  afterwards 
she  had  sued  for  and  obtained  a  Bull  of  Separation 
from  the  Pope,  on  the  plea  of  her  husband's  infidelity 
and  cruelty.  The  infidelity,  to  be  sure,  was  no  more 
than,  as  a  Royalty,  if  not  as  a  woman,  she  might 
have  bargained  for  and  borne  with ;  but  everybody 
remembers  the  stories  of  the  king's  drunken  violence 
that  got  bruited  about  at  the  time.  Everybody  will 
remember,  too,  how,  the  Papal  Separation  once  pro- 
nounced, he  had  retaliated  upon  her  with  a  decree  of 
absolute  divorce,  and  a  sentence  of  perpetual  banish- 
ment, voted  by  his  own  parliament.  Whither  she 
had  betaken  herself  after  these  troubles  Paul  had 
never  heard  —  until,  yesterday,  arriving  at  Saint- 
Graal,  they  told  him  she  was  living  cloistered  like 
a  nun  at  Granjolaye. 

News  travels  fast  and  penetrates  everywhere  in  that 
lost  corner  of  garrulous  Gascony.  The  news  that  Paul 
had  taken  up  his  residence  at  Saint-Graal  could 
scarcely  fail  to  reach  the  Queen.  Would  she  remem- 
ber their  childish  intimacy  ?  Would  she  make  him 
a  sign  ?  Would  she  let  him  see  her,  for  old  sake's 
sake?  Oh,  in  all  probability,  no.  Most  certainly, 
no.  And  yet — and  yet  he  couldn't  forbid  a  little 
furtive  hope  to  flicker  in  his  heart. 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  173 


It  was  only  April,  but  the  sun  shone  with  mid- 
summer strength. 

After  Andre  left  him,  he  went  down  into  the 
garden. 

From  a  little  distance  the  house,  against  the  sky, 
looked  insubstantial,  a  water-color,  painted  in  gray 
and  amber  on  a  field  of  luminous  blue.  If  he  had 
wished  it,  he  could  have  bathed  himself  in  flowers ; 
hyacinths,  crocuses,  jonquils,  camellias,  roses,  grew 
round  him  everywhere,  sending  up  a  symphony  of 
warm  odors  ;  further  on,  in  the  grass,  violets,  anem- 
ones, celandine  ;  further  still,  by  the  margins  of  the 
pond,  narcissuses,  and  tall  white  flowers-de-luce ;  and, 
in  the  shrubberies,  satiny  azaleas  ;  and  overhead,  the 
magnolia-trees,  drooping  with  their  freight  of  ivory 
cups.  The  glass  doors  of  the  orangery  stood  open,  a 
cloud  of  sweetness  hanging  heavily  before  them.  In 
the  park,  the  chestnuts  were  in  full  leaf ;  and  surely 
a  thousand  birds  were  twittering  and  piping  amongst 
their  branches. 

"  Oh,  bother !  How  it  cries  out  for  a  woman,"  said 
Paul.  "  It 's  such  a  waste  of  good  material." 

The  beauty  went  to  one's  head.  One  craved  a  sym- 
pathetic companion  to  share  it  with,  a  woman  on 
whom  to  lavish  the  ardors  it  enkindled.  "  If  I  don't 
look  out  I  shall  become  sentimental,"  the  lone  man 
told  himself.  "  Nature  ?s  so  fearfully  lacking  in  tact. 
Fancy  her  singing  an  epithalamium  in  a  poor  fellow's 
ears,  when  he  does  n't  know  a  single  human  woman 
nearer  than  Paris."  To  make  matters  worse,  the  day 


174  GRAY  ROSES. 

ended  in  a  fiery  sunset,  and  then  there  was  a  full 
moon ;  and  in  the  roseiy  a  nightingale  performed  its 
sobbing  serenade.  "  Please  go  out  and  give  that  bird 
a  penny,  and  tell  him  to  go  away,"  Paul  said  to  a 
servant.  It  was  all  very  well  to  jest,  but  at  every 
second  breath  he  sighed  profoundly.  I  'in  afraid  he 
had  become  sentimental.  It  seemed  a  serious  pity 
that  what  his  heart  was  full  of  should  spend  itself  on 
the  incapable  air.  His  sense  of  humor  was  benumbed. 
And  when,  presently,  the  frogs  in  the  pond,  a  hun- 
dred yards  away,  set  up  their  monotonous  plaintive 
concert,  he  laid  down  his  arms.  "  It 's  no  use,  I  'm  in 
for  it,"  he  confessed.  After  all,  he  was  out  of  Eng- 
land. He  was  in  Gascony,  the  borderland  between 
amorous  France  and  old  romantic  Spain. 

I  don't  know  whom  his  imagination  dwelt  the  more 
fondly  with :  the  stricken  Queen,  beyond  there,  alone 
in  the  darkness  and  the  silence,  where  the  night  lay 
on  the  forest  of  Granjolaye  ;  or  the  pale  horsewoman 
of  the  morning. 

But  surely,  as  yet,  he  had  no  ghost  of  a  reason  for 
dreaming  that  the  two  were  one  and  the  same. 


VI 

"Now,  let's  be  logical,"  he  said  next  morning. 
"  Let 's  be  logical  and  hopeful  —  yet  not  too  hopeful, 
not  Utopian.  Let 's  look  the  matter  courageously  in 
the  face.  Since  she  rode  there  once,  why  may  she 
not  ride  again  in  the  Sentier  des  Contrebandiers  ? 
Why  may  n't  she  ride  there  often  —  even  daily  ?  I 
think  that 's  logical.  Don't  you  think  that 's  logical  ?  " 


CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN.  175 

The  person  he  addressed,  a  tall,  slender  young  man, 
with  a  fresh-colored  skin,  a  straight  nose,  and  rather 
a  ribald  eye,  was  vigorously  brushing  a  head  of  yel- 
lowish hair  in  the  looking-glass  before  him. 

"  Tush  !  But  of  course  you  think  so,"  Paul  went 
on.  "  You  always  think  as  I  do.  If  you  knew  how  I 
despise  a  sycophant!  And  yet  —  you're  not  bad 
looking.  No,  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  can  honestly  say 
that  you  're  bad  looking.  You  've  got  nice  hair,  and 
plenty  of  it ;  and  there 's  a  weakness  about  your 
mouth  and  chin  that  goes  to  my  heart.  I  hate  firm 
people.  —  What  ?  So  do  you  ?  I  thought  so.  —  Ah, 
well,  my  poor  friend,  you  're  booked  for  a  shocking 
long  walk  this  morning.  You  must  summon  your 
utmost  fortitude.  —  '  Under  the  greenwood  tree,  who 
loves  to  lie  with  me  ? '  "  he  carolled  forth,  to  Marzials's 
tune.  "  But  come  !  I  say !  That 's  anticipating." 

And  he  set  forth  for  the  Smugglers'  Pathway, — 
where,  sure  enough,  she  rode  again.  As  she  passed 
him,  her  eyes  met  his  :  at  which  he  was  conscious  of 
a  good  deal  of  interior  commotion.  "  By  Jove,  she 's 
magnificent,  she 's  really  stunning,"  he  exclaimed  to 
himself.  He  perceived  that  she  was  rather  a  big 
woman,  tall,  with  finely  rounded,  smoothly  flowing 
lines.  Her  hair,  —  velvety  blue-black  in  its  shadows, 
—  where  the  light  caught  it  was  dully  iridescent. 
Her  features  were  irregular  enough  to  give  her  face 
a  high  degree  of  individuality,  yet  by  no  means  to 
deprive  it  of  delicacy  or  attractiveness.  She  had  a 
superb  white  throat,  and  a  soft  voluptuous  chin  ;  and 
"  As  I  live,  I  never  saw  such  a  mouth,"  said  Paul. 

Where  did  she  come  from  ?  Bayonne  ?  Never. 
Andre  might  have  been  mistaken  about  Chateau 


176  GRAY  ROSES. 

Yroulte;  the  Spanish  Jew  had  perhaps  sold  it,  or 
found  a  tenant.  Or,  further  afield,  there  were 
Chateaux  Labenne,  Saumuse,  d'Orthevielle.  Or  else, 
the  Queen  had  a  guest. 

"Anyhow,"  he  mused,  when  he  got  home,  "that 
makes  five,  six  miles  that  you  have  tramped  to  enjoy 
an  instant's  glimpse  of  her.  Fortunately  they  say 
walking  is  good  for  the  constitution.  It  only  shows 
what  extremities  a  country  life  may  drive  one  to." 

The  next  day,  not  only  did  her  eyes  meet  his,  but 
he  could  have  sworn  that  she  almost  smiled.  Oh,  a 
very  furtive  smile,  the  mere  transitory  suggestion 
of  a  smile.  But  the  inner  commotion  was  more 
marked. 

The  next  day  (the  fourth)  she  undoubtedly  did 
smile,  and  slightly  inclined  her  head.  He  removed 
his  hat,  and  went  home,  and  waited  impatiently  for 
twenty-four  hours  to  wear  away.  "She  smiled  —  she 
bowed,"  he  kept  repeating.  But,  alas  !  he  could  n't 
forget  that  in  that  remote  countryside  it  is  very  much 
the  fashion  for  people  who  meet  in  the .  roads  and 
lanes  to  bow  as  they  pass. 

On  the  fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth  days  she 
bowed  and  smiled. 

"  I  fairly  wonder  at  myself  —  to  walk  that  distance 
for  a  bow  and  smile,"  said  Paul.  "  To-morrow  I  'm 
going  to  speak.  Faut  brusquer  les  choses." 

And  he  penetrated  into  the  forest,  firmly  deter- 
mined to  speak.  "  Only  I  can't  seem  to  think  of 
anything  very  pat  to  say,"  he  sighed.  "  Hello ! 
She  's  off  her  horse." 

She  was  off  her  horse,  standing  beside  it,  holding 
the  loose  end  of  a  strap  in  her  hand. 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  Ill 

Providence  was  favoring  him.  Here  was  his 
obvious  chance.  Something  was  wrong.  He  could 
offer  his  assistance.  And  yet,  that  inner  commotion 
was  so  violent,  he  felt  a  little  bewildered  about  the 
mot  juste.  He  approached  her  gradually,  trying  to 
compose  himself  and  collect  his  wits. 

She  looked  up,  and  said  in  French,  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  Something  has  come  undone.  Can  you 
help  me  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  delicious,  cool  and  smooth  as  ivory. 
His  heart  pounded.  He  vaguely  bowed,  and  mur- 
mured, "  I  should  be  delighted." 

She  stood  aside  a  little,  and  he  took  her  place.  He 
bent  over  the  strap  that  was  loose,  and  bit  his  lips, 
and  cursed  his  embarrassment.  "Come,  I  mustn't 
let  her  think  me  quite  an  ass."  He  was  astonished 
at  himself.  That  he  should  still  be  capable  of  so 
strenuous  a  sensation  !  "  And  I  had  thought  I  was 
blase !  "  He  was  intensely  conscious  of  the  silence, 
of  the  solitude  and  dimness  of  the  forest,  and  of  their 
isolation  there,  so  near  to  each  other,  that  superb  pale 
woman  and  himself.  But  his  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
misbehaving  strap,  which  he  held  helplessly  between 
his  fingers. 

At  last  he  looked  up  at  her.  "How  warm  and 
beautiful  and  fragrant  she  is,"  he  thought.  "  With 
her  white  face,  with  her  dark  eyes,  with  those  red 
lips  and  that  splendid  figure  —  what  an  heroic  looking 
woman  ! " 

"This  is  altogether  disgraceful,"  he  said,  "and  I 
assure  you  I  'm  covered  with  confusion.  But  I  won't 
dissemble.  I  have  n't  the  remotest  notion  what 
needs  to  be  done.  I  'in  afraid  this  is  the  first  time  in 

12 


178  GRAY  ROSES. 

my  life  I  have  ever  touched  anything  belonging  to  a 
horse." 

He  said  it  with  a  pathetic  drawl,  and  she  laughed  : 
"And  yet  you're  English." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  'm  English  enough.  Though  I 
don't  see  how  you  knew  it.  Don't  tell  me  you  knew 
it  from  my  accent." 

"  Oh,  non  pas,"  she  hastened  to  protest.  "  But 
you  're  the  new  owner  of  Saint-Graal.  Everybody  of 
the  country  knows,  of  course,  that  the  new  owner  of 
Saint-Graal,  Mr.  Warringwood,  is  English." 

"  Ah,  then  she  's  of  the  country,"  was  Paul's  men- 
tal note. 

"And  I  thought  all  Englishmen  were  horsemen," 
she  went  on. 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  few  bright  exceptions  —  there  's  a 
little  scattered  remnant.  It 's  the  study  of  my  life  to 
avoid  being  typical." 

"  Ah,  well,  then  give  me  the  strap." 

He  gave  her  the  strap,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  she  had  snapped  the  necessary  buckle.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  oddly.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  the  entire  comedy  of  the  strap  had  perhaps 
been  invented  as  an  excuse  for  opening  a  conver- 
sation ;  and  he  was  at  once  flattered  and  disappointed. 

"  Oh,  if  she 's  that  sort  .  .  ."  he  thought. 

"I  'm  heart-broken  not  to  have  been  able  to  serve 
you,"  he  said. 

"You  can  help  me  to  mount,"  she  answered. 

And,  before  he  quite  knew  how  it  was  done,  he 
had  helped  her  to  mount,  and  she  was  galloping 
down  the  path.  The  firm  grasp  of  her  warm  gloved 
hand  on  his  shoulder  accompanied  him  to  Saint- 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  179 

Graal.  "It's  amazing  how  she  sticks  in  my  mind," 
he  said.  He  really  could  n't  fix  his  attention  on  any 
other  subject.  "I  wonder  who  the  deuce  she  is. 
She's  giving  me  my  money's  worth  in  walking. 
That  business  of  the  strap  was  really  brazen.  Still, 
one  mustn't  quarrel  with  the  means  if  one  desires 
the  end.  I  hope  she  is  n't  that  sort." 


VII 

On  the  tenth,  eleventh,  and  twelfth  days  she 
passed  him  with  a  bow  and  a  good-morning. 

"This  is  too  much! "  he  groaned,  in  the  silence  of 
his  chamber.  "  She  's  doing  it  with  malice.  I  '11  not 
be  trifled  with.  I  —  I'll  do  something  desperate. 
I  '11  pretend  to  faint,  and  she  '11  have  to  get  down 
and  bandage  up  my  wounds." 

On  the  thirteenth  day,  as  they  met,  she  stopped 
her  horse. 

"You  're  at  least  typically  English  in  one  respect," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  unkind  lady!  To  announce  it  to  me  in  this 
sudden  way.  Then  my  life  's  a  failure." 

"I  mean  in  your  fondness  for  long  walks." 

"  Ah ,  then,  you  're  totally  in  error.  I  hate  long 
walks." 

"  But  it 's  a  good  ten  kilometres  to  and  from  your 
house;  and  you  do  it  every  morning." 

"  That's  only  because  there  aren't  any  omnibuses 
or  cabs  or  things.  And  "  (he  reminded  himself  that  if 
she  was  that  sort,  he  might  be  bold)  "  I  'm  irresistibly 
attracted  here." 


180  GRAY  ROSES. 

"It's  very  pretty,"  she  admitted,  and  rode  on. 

He  looked  after  her,  grinding  his  teeth.  Was  she 
that  sort?  "One  never  can  tell.  Her  face  is  so  tine 
—  so  noble  even." 

The  next  day,  "Yes,  I  suppose  it's  very  pretty. 
But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Nature,"  he  informed  her, 
as  she  approached. 

She  drew  up. 

"Oh,  it  has  its  human  interest  too,  no  doubt." 
She  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  Chateau  of 
Granjolaye. 

"The  Queen,"  said  he.     "But  one  never  sees  her." 

"That  adds  the  charm  of  mystery,  don't  you  feel? 
To  think  of  that  poor  young  exiled  woman,  after  so 
grand  a  beginning,  ending  so  desolately, — shut  up 
alone  in  her  mysterious  castle!  It 's  like  a  legend." 

"Then  you  're  not  of  her  Court  ? " 

"I?     Of  her  Court?     Mais  quelle  idee!  " 

"It  was  only  a  hypothesis.  Of  course,  you  know 
I  'm  devoured  by  curiosity.  My  days  are  spent  in 
wondering  who  you  are." 

She  laughed.  "You  must  have  a  care,  or  you'll 
be  typical,"  she  warned  him. 

"I  never  said  I  wasn't  human,"  he  called  after 
her,  as  she  cantered  away. 


VIII 

The  next  day  still  (the  fifteenth),  "Haven't  I 
heard  you  lived  at  Saint-Graal  when  you  were  a 
child?"  she  asked. 

"  If  you  have,  for  once  in  a  way  rumor  has  told  the 
truth.  I  lived  at  Saint-Graal  till  I  was  thirteen." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  181 

"  Then  perhaps  you  knew  her?  " 

"Her?" 

uThe  Queen,  —  Mademoiselle  de  la  Granjolaye  de 
Ravanches." 

44  Oh,  I  knew  her  very  well  —  when  we  were 
children." 

"Tell  me  all  about  her." 

"It  would  be  a  long  story." 

She  leaped  from  her  horse;  then,  raising  her 
riding  whip,  and  looking  the  animal  severely  in  the 
eye,  "Bezigue!  Attention!"  she  said  impressively. 
"  You  're  to  stop  exactly  where  you  are,  and  not  play 
any  tricks.  Entendu  ?  Bien."  She  moved  a  few 
steps  down  the  pathway,  and  stopped  at  an  opening 
among  the  trees,  where  the  ground  was  a  cushion  of 
bright  green  moss.  "By  Jove!  she  is  at  her  ease," 
thought  Paul,  who  followed  her.  "How  splendidly 
she  walks !  what  undulations ! "  From  the  French 
point  of  view,  as  she  must  be  aware,  the  situation 
gave  him  all  sorts  of  rights. 

She  sank  softly,  gracefully,  upon  the  moss.  "It 's 
a  long  story.  Tell  it  me,"  she  commanded,  and 
pointed  to  the  earth.  He  sat  down  facing  her,  at  a 
little  distance. 

"It's  odd  you  should  have  chosen  this  place," 
said  he. 

"Odd?  Why?"  She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 
For  a  moment  their  eyes  held  each  other ;  and  all  at 
once  the  blood  swept  through  him  with  suffocating 
violence.  She  was  so  beautiful,  so  sumptuous,  so 
warmly  and  richly  feminine ;  and  surely  the  circum- 
stances were  not  anodyne.  Her  softly  rounded  face, 
its  very  pallor,  the  curve  and  color  of  her  lips,  her 


182  GRAY  ROSES. 

luminous  dark  eyes,  the  smooth  modulations  of  her 
voice,  and  then  her  loose  abundance  of  black  hair, 
and  the  swelling  lines  of  her  breast,  the  fluent  contour 
of  her  waist  and  hips,  under  the  fine  black  cloth  of 
her  dress,  — all  these,  with  the  silence  of  the  forest, 
the  heat  of  the  southern  day,  the  woodland  fragrances 
of  which  the  air  was  full,  and  the  sense  of  being 
intimately  alone  with  her,  set  up  within  him  a 
turbulent  vibration,  half  of  delight,  half  of  pained 
suspense.  And  the  complaisant  informality  with 
which  she  met  him  played  a  sustaining  counterpoint. 
"  What  luck ,  what  luck ,  what  luck !  "  were  the  words 
which  shaped  themselves  to  the  strong  beating  of  his 
pulses.  What  would  happen  next?  Whither  would 
it  lead?  He  had  savored  the  bouquet,  he  was 
famished  to  taste  the  wine.  And  yet,  so  compli- 
cated are  our  human  feelings,  he  was  obscurely 
vexed.  Only  two  kinds  of  woman,  he  would  have 
maintained  yesterday,  could  conceivably  do  a  thing 
like  this,  — an  ingenue,  or  "that  sort."  She  wasn't 
an  ingenue.  Something,  at  the  same  time,  half 
assured  him  that  she  wasn't  "that  sort,"  either. 
But  —  the  circumstances !  The  situation ! 

"Why  odd?"  she  repeated. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  the  Queen,"  he 
said,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"The  oddity  relates  itself  to  the  Queen?" 

"Oh,  this  is  where  we  used  to  waste  half  our  lives 
when  we  were  children.  That's  all.  This  was  our 
favorite  nook." 

"  Perfect,  then,  for  the  story  you  're  going  to  tell 
me." 

44 What  story?" 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  183 

"You  said  it  was  a  long  story. " 

"  There  's-  really  no  story  at  all."  His  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  her  hands,  small  and  tapering  in  their 
tan  gauntlets.  The  point  of  a  patent-leather  boot 
glanced  from  the  edge  of  her  skirt.  A  short  gold 
watch-chain  dangled  from  her  breast,  a  cluster  of 
charms  at  the  end. 

"You  said  it  was  a  long  story,"  she  repeated 
sternly. 

"It  would  be  a  dull  one.  We  knew  each  other 
when  we  were  infants,  and  used  to  play  together. 
That  is  all." 

"But  what  was  she  like?  Describe  her  to  me.  I 
adore  souvenirs  d'enfance."  Her  eyes  were  bright 
with  eagerness. 

"Oh,  she  was  very  pretty;  the  prettiest  little  girl 
I  'VQ  ever  seen.  She  had  the  most  wonderful  eyes, 
—  deep,  deep,  into  which  you  could  look  a  hundred 
miles;  you  know  the  sort, — dreamy,  poetical,  sad; 
oh!  lovely  eyes.  And  she  used  to  wear  her  hair 
down  her  back ;  it  was  very  long,  and  soft,  —  soft 
as  smoke,  almost;  almost  impalpable.  She  always 
dressed  in  white,  —  short  white  frocks,  with  broad 
sashes,  red  or  blue.  That  was  the  fashion  then 
for  little  girls.  Perhaps  it  is  still  —  I've  never 
noticed." 

"Yes.     Don't  stop.     Goon." 

"  Dear  me,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  used  to 
see  her  a  good  deal,  because  they  were  our  neighbors. 
Her  father  used  to  ask  me  over  to  stay  at  Granjolaye. 
She  needed  a  playmate,  and  I  was  the  only  one  avail- 
able. Sometimes  she  would  come  and  spend  a  day 
at  Saint-Graal.  Do  you  know  Granjolaye?  The- 


184  GRAY  ROSES. 

castle?  It 's  worth  going  over.  It  used  to  belong  to 
the  Kings  of  Navarre,  you  know.  We  used  to  play 
together  in  the  great  audience  chamber,  and  chase 
each  other  through  the  secret  passages  in  the  walls. 
At  Saint-Graal  we  confined  ourselves  to  the  garden. 
Her  head  was  full  of  the  queerest  romantic  notions. 
You  could  n't  persuade  her  that  the  white  irises  that 
grew  about  our  pond  weren't  enchanted  princesses. 
One  day  we  filled  a  bottle  with  holy  water  at  the 
Church,  and  then  she  sprinkled  them  with  it,  pro- 
nouncing an  incantation.  '  If  ye  were  born  as  ye 
are,  remain  as  ye  are;  but  if  ye  were  born  otherwise, 
resume  your  original  shapes.7  They  remained  as 
they  were;  but  that  didn't  shake  her  faith.  Some- 
thing was  amiss  with  the  holy  water,  or  with  the 
form  of  her  incantation." 

She  laughed  softly.  "Then  she  was  nice?  You 
liked  her?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  was  passionately  in  love  with  her.  All 
children  are  passionately  in  love  with  somebody, 
aren't  they?  A  real  grande  passion.  It  began 
when  I  was  about  ten."  He  broke  off,  to  laugh. 
"Do  you  care  for  love  stories?  I  'm  a  weary,  way- 
worn man;  but  upon  my  word,  I  've  never  in  all  my 
life  felt  any  such  intense  emotion  for  a  woman,  any- 
thing that  so  nearly  deserved  to  be  called  love,  as 
I  felt  for  Helene  de  la  Granjolaye  when  I  was  an 
infant.  Night  after  night  I  used  to  lie  awake  think- 
ing how  I  loved  her  —  longing  to  tell  her  so  —  plan- 
ning how  I  would,  next  day  —  composing  tremendous 
declarations  —  imagining  her  response  —  and  waiting 
in  a  fever  of  impatience  for  the  day  to  come.  But 
then,  when  I  met  her,  I  didn't  dare.  Bless  me,  how 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  185 

I  used  to  thrill  at  sight  of  her,  with  love,  with  fear! 
How  I  used  to  look  at  her  face,  and  pine  to  kiss  her ! 
If  her  hand  touched  mine,  I  almost  fainted.  It 's 
very  strange  that  children  before  their  teens  should 
be  able  to  experience  the  whole  gamut  of  the  spiritual 
side  of  love;  and  yet  it's  certain." 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  intent  eyes,  her  lips 
parted  a  little.  "But  you  did  tell  her  at  last,  I 
hope?"  she  said  anxiously. 

He  had  got  warmed  to  his  subject,  and  her  interest 
inspired  him. 

"Oh,  at  last!  It  was  here  —  in  this  very  spot.  I 
had  picked  a  lot  of  celandine,  and  stuck  them  about 
in  her  hair,  where  they  shone  like  stars.  Oh,  the 
joy  of  being  allowed  to  touch  her  hair!  It  made 
utterance  a  necessity.  I  fumbled  and, stammered,  and 
blushed  and  thrilled,  and  almost  choked.  And  at 
last  I  blurted  it  out.  '  I  love  you  so  —  I  love  you 
so.7  That  —  after  the  eloquent  declarations  I  had 
composed  overnight! " 

4 'And  she?" 

"She  answered  quite  simply,  *  Et  moi,  je  t'aime 
tant,  aussi.'  And  then  she  began  to  cry.  And  when 
I  asked  her  what  she  was  crying  for,  she  explained 
that  I  oughtn't  to  have  left  her  in  doubt  for  so  long; 
she  had  been  so  unhappy  from  fear  that  I  didn't 
4  love  her  so.'  She  was  quite  unfemininely  frank, 
you  see.  Oh,  the  ecstasy  of  that  hour!  The  ecstasy 
of  our  first  kiss !  From  that  time  on  it  was  *  mon 
petit  mari'  and  'ma  petite  femme.'  The  greatest 
joy  in  life  for  me,  for  us,  was  to  sit  together,  holding 
each  other's  hands,  and  repeating  from  time  to  time, 
4  J'  t'aime  tant,  j'  t'aime  tant.'  Now  and  then  we 


186  GRAY  ROSES. 

would  vary  it  with  a  fugue  upon  our  names  — 
'Helene!'  —  'Paul!'"  He  laughed.  "Children, 
with  their  total  lack  of  humor,  are  the  drollest  of 
created  beings,  aren't  they?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  it  'a  droll.  I  know  all  children 
have  those  desperate  love  affairs;  but  they  seem  to 
me  pathetic.  How  did  it  go  on?" 

"  Oh,  for  two  or  three  years  we  lived  in  Paradise. 
There  were  no  other  boys  in  the  neighborhood,  so  she 
was  constant." 

"  For  three  years  ?     And  then  ?  " 

"Then  my  grandmother  died,  and  I  was  carried  off 
to  Paris.  She  remained  here;  and  so  it  ended." 

"And  when  did  you  meet  her  next?  After  you 
were  grown  up?" 

"I  have  never  met  her  since." 

"  You  must  have  followed  her  career  with  a  special 
interest,  though?" 

"Ah,  quant  a  9a!" 

"  Her  marriage,  her  coronation,  her  divorce.  Poor 
Woman !  What  she  must  have  suffered !  Have  you 
made  any  attempt  to  see  her  since  you  came  back  to 
Saint-Graal?" 

"Ah,  merci,  non  !  If  she  wanted  to  see  me,  she  'd 
send  for  me." 

"She  sees  no  one,  everybody  says.  But  I  should 
think  she'd  like  to  see  you  —  her  old  playmate.  If 
she  should  send  for  you —  But  I  suppose  I  mustn't 
ask  you  to  tell  me  about  it  afterwards?  Of  course, 
like  everybody  else  in  her  neighborhood,  I  'in  awfully 
interested  in  her." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  She  looked  at  the 
moss  beneath  her,  and  stroked  it  lightly  with  a 
finger-tip.  Paul  looked  at  her. 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  187 

"You're  horribly  unkind,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Unkind?"  She  raised  wide  eyes  of  innocent 
surprise. 

"  You  know  I  'm  in  an  agony  of  curiosity." 

"About  what?" 

"About  you." 

"Me?" 

"Yourself." 

She  lifted  the  cluster  of  charms  at  the  end  of  her 
watch-chain.  One  of  them  was  a  tiny  golden  whistle. 
On  this  she  blew,  and  Bezigue  came  trotting  up. 
She  mounted  him  to-day  without  Paul's  assistance. 
Smiling  down  on  the  young  man,  she  said,  "Oh, 
after  the  reckless  way  in  which  I  've  cast  the  con- 
ventions to  the  winds,  you  really  can't  expect  me  to 
give  you  my  name  and  address."  And  before  he 
could  answer,  she  was  gone. 

He  walked  about  for  the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement.  "My  dear,"  he  told  himself, 
"if  you  're  not  careful,  something  serious  will  happen 
to  you." 


IX 


When  he  woke  up  he  saw  that  it  was  raining;  and 
in  that  part  of  the  world  it  really  never  does  rain 
but  it  pours.  Needless  to  touch  upon  the  impatient 
ennui  with  which  he  roamed  the  house.  He  sent  for 
Andre  to  lunch  with  him. 

"Andre,  can't  you  do  something  to  stop  this  rain?  " 
he  asked;  but  Andre  stared.  "Oh,  I  was  thinking 
of  the  priests  of  Baal,"  Paul  explained.  "I  beg  your 


188  GRAY  ROSES. 

pardon."  And  after  the  coffee,  "Let's  go  up  and 
play  in  the  garret,"  he  proposed;  at  which  Andre 
stared  harder  still.  "  We  always  used  to  play  in  the 
garret  on  rainy  days,"  Paul  reminded  him.  "Mais, 
ma  foi,  monsieur,  nous  ne  sorames  plus  des  gosses," 
Andre  answered. 

"Is  there  any  news  about  the  Queen?"  Paul  asked. 

"There's  never  any  news  from  Granjolaye,"  said 
Andre. 

"And  the  lady  I  met  in  the  forest?  Have  you  any 
new  theory  who  she  is?" 

"An  officer's  wife  from  Ba " 

"  Andre !  "  cried  Paul.  "  If  you  say  that  again,  I 
shall  write  to  the  Pope  and  ask  him  to  disfrock  you." 

The  next  day  was  tine;  but  though  he  spent  the 
entire  morning  in  the  Smuggler's  Pathway,  he  did 
not  meet  her.  "  It 's  because  the  ground  's  still  wet," 
he  reasoned.  "Oh,  why  don't  things  dry  quicker?" 

The  next  day  he  did  meet  her  —  and  she  passed 
him  with  a  bow.  He  shook  his  fist  at  her  unsuspect- 
ing back. 

The  next  day  he  perceived  Bezigue  riderless  near 
the  opening  among  the  trees.  The  horse  neighed, 
as  he  drew  near.  She  was  seated  on  the  moss.  He 
stood  still,  and  bowed  tentatively  from  the  path. 
"Are  you  disengaged?  May  I  come  in?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  do,"  she  answered.  "And  —  won't  you  take 
a  seat?  " 

"Thank  you,"  and  he  placed  himself  beside  her. 

"Tell  me  about  your  life  afterwards,"  she  said. 

"  My  life  afterwards?    After  what?  " 

"  After  you  were  carried  off  to  Paris." 

"What  earthly  interest  can  that  have?" 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  189 

"I  want  to  know." 

"  Tt  was  the  average  life  of  the  average  youth  whose 
family  is  in  average  circumstances." 

"You  went  to  school?" 

"What  makes  you  doubt  it?  Do  I  seem  so 
illiterate?" 

"Where?     In  England?     Eton?     Harrow?" 

"No,  in  Paris.  The  Lycee  Louis  le  Grand.  Oh, 
I  have  received  an  education  —  no  expense  was 
spared.  I  forget  how  many  years  I  passed  a  faive 
mon  droit  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  You  'd  be  surprised 
if  you  were  to  discover  what  a  lot  I  know.  Shall  I 
prove  to  you  that  the  sum  of  the  angles  of  a  right- 
angled  triangle  is  equal  to  two  right  angles?  Or 
conjugate  the  verb  arno  ?  Or  give  you  a  brief  sum- 
mary of  the  doctrines  of  Aristotle  ?  Or  an  account  of 
the  life  and  works  of  Gustavus  Adolphus?" 

"  When  did  you  go  to  England?" 

"  Not  till  Necessity  drove  me  there.  I  had  to  eke 
out  a  meagre  patrimony.  I  went  to  England  to  seek 
my  fortune." 

"Did  you  find  it?" 

"  I  never  had  the  knack  of  finding  things.  When 
my  father  used  to  send  me  into  the  library  to  fetch  a 
book,  or  my  mother  into  her  dressing-room  to  fetch 
her  scissors,  I  could  never  find  them.  I  looked  for 
it  everywhere,  but  I  couldn't  find  it." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  lived  by  my  wits.     Chevalier  d'industrie." 

"Ah,  non.     Je  ne  crois  pas." 

"You  don't  believe  my  wits  were  sufficient  to  the 
task?  I  was  like  the  London  hospitals,  —  practically 
unendowed  ;  only  they  would  n't  support  me  by 


190  GRAY  ROSES. 

voluntary  contributions.  So  —  I  wrote  for  the  news- 
papers, I  'm  afraid." 

"For  the  newspapers?" 

"  Oh,  I  admit,  it  ?s  scandalous.  But  you  may  as 
well  know  the  worst.  A  penny-a-liner!  But  I 
sha'n't  do  so  any  more,  now  that  I  have  stepped  into 
the  shoes  of  my  uncle.  You  '11  never  catch  me 
fatiguing  myself  with  work,  now  that  I  've  got 
enough  to  live  on ! " 

"Lazy!" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  everything  that 's  reprehensible." 

"And  you  never  married?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"  Are  n't  you  sure?  " 

"  As  sure  as  one  can  be  of  anything  in  this  doubtful 
world." 

"But  why  didn't  you?" 

"Pas  si  b§te.  Marriage  is  such  a  bore.  I  never 
met  a  woman  I  could  bear  the  thought  of  passing  all 
my  life  with." 

"Conceited!" 

"I  dare  say.  If  you  like  false  modesty  better,  I  '11 
try  to  meet  your  wishes.  What  woman  would  have 
had  a  poor  devil  like  me?" 

"Still,  marriage  is,  after  all,  very  much  in  vogue." 

"Yes,  but  it's  mad.  Either  you  must  love  the 
woman  you  marry,  or  you  mustn't  love  her.  But  if 
you  marry  a  woman  without  loving  her,  I  hope  you  '11 
not  deny  you're  doing  a  very  shocking  thing.  If, 
on  the.  contrary,  you  do  love  her,  raison  de  plus  for 
not  marrying  her.  Fancy  marrying  a  woman  you 
love;  and  then,  day  by  day,  watching  the  beautiful 
wild-flower  of  love  fatten  into  a  domestic  cabbage! 
Isn't  that  a  syllogism?" 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  191 

"You  have  been  in  love,  then?" 

"Never." 

"  Never?" 

"  Oh,  I  've  made  a  fool  of  myself  occasionally,  of 
course.     But  I  've  never  been  in  love." 

"Except  with  Helene  de  la  Granjolaye?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was  in  love  with  her  —  when  I  was 
ten." 

"Till  you  were  .  .  .?" 

"Till  I  was  .  .  .?" 

"How  long  did  it  take  you  to  get  over  it,  I  mean?  " 

"I  don't  know;  it  wore  away  gradually.  The 
tooth  of  time." 

"  You  're  not  at  all  in  love  with  her  any  more?  " 

"After  twenty  years?  And  she  a  Queen?  I  hope 
I  know  my  place." 

"But  if  you  were  to  meet  her  again?" 

"I  should  probably  suffer  a  horrible  disillusion." 

"  But  you  have  found,  at  any  rate,  that  '  first  love 
is  best '  ?  " 

"  First  and  last.  The  last  shall  be  first,"  he  said 
oracularly. 

"  Don't  you  smoke  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  one  by  one  you  drag  my  vices  from  me.  Let 
me  own,  en  bloc,  that  I  have  them  all." 

"  Then  you  may  light  a  cigarette  and  give  me  one." 

He  gave  her  a  cigarette,  and  held  a  match  while 
she  lit  it.  Then  he  lit  one  for  himself.  Her  manner 
of  smoking  was  leisurely,  luxurious.  She  inhaled  the 
smoke,  and  let  it  escape  slowly  in  a  slender  spiral. 
He  looked  at  her  through  the  thin  cloud,  and  his  heart 
closed  in  a  convulsion.  "  How  big  and  soft  and  rich 
—  how  magnificent  she  is — like  some  great  splendid 


192  GRAY  ROSES. 

flower,  heavy  with  sweetness !  "  he  thought.  He  had 
to  breathe  deep  to  overcome  a  feeling  of  suffocation  ; 
he  was  trembling  in  every  nerve,  and  he  wondered  if 
she  perceived  it.  He  divined  the  smooth  perfection 
of  her  body,  through  the  supple  cloth  that  moulded 
it ;  he  noticed  vaguely  that  the  dress  she  wore  to-day 
was  blue,  not  black.  He  divined  the  warmth  of  her 
round  white  throat,  the  perfume  of  her  skin.  "  And 
how  those  lips  could 'kiss  !  "  his  imagination  shouted 
wildly.  Again,  the  silence,  the  solitude  and  dimness 
of  the  forest,  their  intimate  seclusion  there,  the  great 
trees,  the  sky,  the  bright  green  cushion  of  moss,  the 
few  detached  sounds,  —  bird-notes,  rustling  leaves, 
snapping  twigs,  —  by  which  the  silence  was  inten- 
sified ;  again  all  these  lent  an  acuteness  to  his  sen- 
sations. Her  dark  eyes  were  smiling  lustrously, 
languidly,  at  the  smoke  curling  in  the  air  before 
her,  as  if  they  saw  a  vision  in  it. 

"  You  're  adorable  at  moments,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  At  moments  !     Thank  you."     She  laughed. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  expect  me  to  pretend  that  I  find 
you  adorable  always.  There  are  times  when  I  could 
fall  upon  you  and  exterminate  you." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  When  you  passed  me  yesterday  with  a  nod." 

"  'T  was  your  own  fault.  You  did  n't  look  amusing 
yesterday." 

"  When  you  baffle  my  perfectly  innocent  desire  to 
know  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing." 

"  Shall  I  summon  Bezigue  ?  "  she  asked,  touching 
her  bunch  of  charms. 

He  acted  his  despair. 

"Besides,  what  does  it  matter?  I  know  who  you 
are,"  she  went  on.  "  Let  that  console  you." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  193 

"  Did  I  say  you  were  adorable  ?     You  're  hateful." 

"  What 's  in  a  name  ?  Nothing  but  the  power  to 
compromise.  Would  you  have  me  compromise  myself 
more  than  I  've  done  already  ?  A  woman  who  makes 
a  man's  acquaintance  without  an  introduction,  and 
talks  about  love,  and  smokes  cigarettes,  with  him  !  " 
She  gave  a  little  shudder.  "  How  horrible  it  sounds 
when  you  state  it  baldly." 

"  One  must  never  state  things  baldly.  One  must 
qualify.  It 's  the  difference  between  Truth  and  mere 
Fact.  Truth  is  Fact  qualified.  You  must  add  that 
the  woman  knew  the  man  by  common  report  to  be  of 
the  highest  possible  respectability,  and  that  she  saw 
for  herself  he  was  (alas  !  )  altogether  harmless.  And 
then  you  must  explain  that  the  affair  took  place  in 
the  country,  in  the  spring;  and  that  the  cigarettes 
were  the  properest  conceivable  sort  of  cigarettes,  hav- 
ing been  rolled  by  hand  in  England." 

t{  You  would  n't  believe  me  if  I  said  I  had  never 
done  such  a  thing  before  ?  They  all  say  that,  don't 
they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  all  say  that.  But,  oddly  enough,  I  do 
believe  you." 

"  Then  you  're  not  entirely  lost  to  grace,  not  thor- 
oughly a  cynic." 

"  Oh,  there  are  some  good  women." 

"And  some  good  men  ?  " 

"  Possibly.     I  've  never  happened  to  meet  one." 

"  The  eye  of  the  beholder  !  " 

"  If  you  like.  But  I  don't  know.  There  are  such 
things,  no  doubt,  as  cynics  by  temperament ;  congeni- 
tal cynics.  Then,  indeed,  you  may  cry :  The  eye  of 
the  beholder.  But  others  become  cynics,  are  driven 

13 


194  GRAY  ROSES. 

into  cynicism,  by  sad  experience.  I  started  in  life 
with  the  rosiest  faith  in  my  fellow-man.  If  I  've  lost 
it,  it  's  because  he  's  always  behaved  shabbily  to  me, 
soon  or  late ;  always  taking  some  advantage.  The 
struggle  for  existence  !  We  're  all  beasts,  who  take 
part  in  it ;  we  must  be,  or  we  're  devoured.  Women 
for  the  most  part  are  out  of  it.  Anyhow,  plus  je  vois 
les  homines,  plus  j'aime  les  femmes." 

"  Are  you  a  beast  too  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  But  I  don't  bite.  I'm  the  kind  of 
beast  that  runs  away.  I  lie  by  the  fire  and  purr,  but 
at  the  first  sign  of  trouble  I  jump  for  the  open  door. 
That 's  why  the  other  fellows  always  got  the  better 
of  me.  They  knew  I  was  a  coward,  and  profited  by 
the  knowledge.  If  my  dear  good  uncle  had  n't  died, 
I  don't  know  how  I  should  have  lived." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  have  i  lived  '  too  much." 

"  That  was  uncalled  for." 

"  Or  else  your  looks  belie  you." 

"  My  looks  ?  " 

"  You  're  so  dissipated-looking." 

"  Dissipated-looking  ?     I  ?     Horror !  " 

"  You  've  got  such  a  sophisticated  eye,  if  that  suits 
you  better.  You  look  blase." 

"  You  're  a  horrid,  rude,  uncomplimentary  thing." 

"  Oh,  if  you  're  going  to  call  names,  I  must  summon 
my  natural  protector."  She  blew  on  her  golden 
whistle,  and  up  trotted  the  obedient  Bezigue. 

That  evening  Paul  said  to  himself,  "  I  vastly  fear 
that  something  serious  has  happened  to  you.  No, 
she  's  everything  you  like,  but  she  is  n't  that  sort." 

He  was  depressed,  dejected — the  reaction,  no 
doubt,  from  the  excitement  of  her  presence.  "  She  's 


CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN.  195 

married,  of  course ;  and  of  course  she  's  got  a  lover. 
And  of  course  she  '11  never  care  a  pin  for  the  likes  of 
nie.  And  of  course  she  sees  what  's  the  matter  with 
me,  and  is  laughing  in  her  sleeve.  And  I  had 
thought  myself  impervious.  Oh,  damn  all  women." 


X 


" Don't  stop;  ride  on,"  he  called  out  to  her,  next 
morning  ;  "  I  sha'n't  be  amusing  to-day.  I  'm  fright- 
fully low  in  my  mind." 

"Perhaps  it  will  amuse  me  to  study  you  in  a  new 
aspect,"  she  said.  "  You  can  entertain  me  with  the 
story  of  your  griefs." 

"Bare  my  wounds  to  make  a  lady  smile  ?  Oh,  any- 
thing to  oblige  you." 

She  leapt  lightly  from  Bezigue,  and  sank  upon  the 
moss. 

"What  is  it  all  about?" 

"  Oh,  not  what  you  imagine,"  said  he.  "  It 's  about 
my  debts." 

"  I  had  hoped  it  was  about  your  sins." 

"  My  sins !  I  'in  kept  awake  at  night  by  the 
thought  of  yours" 

"  Your  conscience  is  too  sensitive.  Mine  are  but 
peccadillos." 

"  You  say  that  because  you  've  no  sense  of  moral 
proportion.  Are  cruelty  and  dissimulation  pecca- 
dillos ?" 

"  They  may  be  even  virtues.  It  all  depends.  Dis- 
cipline and  reserve ! " 

"  I  '11  forgive  you  everything  if  you  '11  tell  me  your 
name." 


196  GRAY  ROSES. 

"Oh,  I  have  debts,  as  well  as  you." 

"  What  have  debts  to  do  with  the  question  ?  " 

"I  owe  something  to  my  reputation." 

"  If  we  're  going  to  consider  our  reputations,  what 
of  mine  ?  " 

"Yours  has  preceded  you  into  the  country,"  she 
said,  and  drew  from  her  pocket  a  small  thin  volume, 
bound  in  gray  cloth,  with  a  gilt  design. 

"  Oh,  heavens  ! "  cried  Paul.  "  This  is  how  one's 
past  finds  one  out." 

"  Oh,  some  of  them  aren't  bad,"  she  said.  "  Wait, 
I  '11  read  you  one." 

"  Then  you  know  English  ?  " 

"  A  leetle.     Bot  the  one  I  shall  read  is  in  Franch." 

And  then  she  read  out,  in  an  enchanting  voice,  one 
of  his  own  French  sonnets.  "  That  is  n't  bad,"  she 
added.  "Do  you  think  it  hopelessly  bad  ?  " 

"  It  shows  promise,  perhaps  —  when  you  read  it." 

"It  is  strange,  though,  that  it  should  have  been 
written  by  a  man  who  had  never  been  in  love." 

"Imagination!  Upon  my  word,  I  never  had  been. 
Besides,  the  idea  is  stolen.  It's  almost  a  literal 
translation  from  Eossetti.  What  with  a  little  imagi- 
nation and  a  little  ingenuity,  one  can  do  wonderfully 
well  on  other  people's  experience." 

"I  don't  believe  you.  You  have  been  in  love  a 
hundred  times." 

"  Never." 

"  Never  ?  Not  even  with  Helene  de  la  Granjolaye 
de  Eavanches  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  count  my  infancy.  Never  with  any- 
body else." 

"  It 's  very  strange,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  some 
more  about  her." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  197 

"  Oh,  bother  her." 

"  I  suppose  when  they  carried  you  off  to  Paris  you 
had  a  tearful  parting  ?  Did  you  kick  and  scream  and 
say  you  would  n't  go  ?  " 

"Why  do  you  always  make  me  talk  about  the 
Queen  ?  " 

"  She  interests  me.  And  when  you  talk  about  the 
Queen,  I  rather  like  you.  It  is  nice  to  see  that  there 
was  a  time  when  you  were  capable  of  an  emotion." 

"  You  fancy  I  'm  incapable  now  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  about  your  leave-taking,  your  farewells." 

"  Bother  our  farewells." 

"  They  must  have  been  heart-rending  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember." 

"  Go  on.  Don't  make  me  drag  it  from  you  by 
inches.  Tell  it  to  me  in  a  pretty  melodious  narrative. 
Either  that,  or —  "  she  touched  her  whistle. 

"  That's  barefaced  intimidation." 

She  raised  the  whistle  to  her  lips. 

"  Stay,  stay !  "  he  cried,  "  I  yield." 

"  I  wait,"  she  answered. 

He  bent  his  brows  for  an  instant,  then  looked  up 
smiling.  "  If  it  puts  you  to  sleep,  you  '11  know  whom 
to  blame." 

"  Yes,  yes,  go  on,"  she  said  impatiently. 

"  Dear  me,  there 's  nothing  worth  telling.  It  was  a 
few  weeks  after  my  grandmother's  death.  We  were 
going  to  Paris  the  next  day.  Her  father  drove  over, 
with  her,  to  say  good-bye.  Whilst  he  was  with  my 
people  in  the  drawing-room,  she  and  I  walked  in  the 
garden.  —  I  say,  this  is  going  to  become  frightfully 
sentimental,  you  know.  Sure  you  want  it  ?  " 


198  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  Go  on.     Go  on." 

'•'Well,  we  walked  in  the  garden;  and  she  was 
crying,  and  I  was  beseeching  her  not  to  cry.  She 
wore  one  of  her  white  frocks,  with  a  red  sash,  and 
her  hair  fell  down  her  back  below  her  waist.  I  was 
holding  her  hand.  '  Don't  cry,  don't  cry.  I  '11 
come  back  as  soon  as  I  'm  a  man,  and  inarry  you  in 
real  earnest ! '  I  promised  her."  He  paused  and 
laughed. 

"Goon.     And  she?" 

"  '  Oh,  are  n't  we  married  in  real  earnest  now  ? ' 
she  asked.  I  explained  that  we  were  n't.  '  You  have 
to  have  the  Notary  over  from  Bayonne,  and  go  to 
Church.  I  know,  because  that 's  how  it  was  when  my 
cousin  Elodie  was  married.  We  're  only  married  in 
play  ! '  Then  she  asked  if  that  was  n't  just  as  good. 
*  Things  one  does  in  play  are  always  so  much  nicer 
than  real  things,'  she  said." 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  !  She 
had  a  prophetic  soul." 

"  Had  n't  she  ?  I  admitted  that  that  was  true. 
But  I  added  that  perhaps  when  people  were  grown- 
up and  could  do  exactly  as  they  pleased,  it  was 
different,  —  perhaps  real  things  would  come  to  be 
pleasant  too." 

"  Have  you  found  them  so  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  can't  be  quite  grown-up,  for  I  've 
never  yet  had  a  chance  to  do  exactly  as  I  pleased." 

"  Poor  young  man.     Go  on." 

"And,  besides,  I  reminded  her,  all  the  married 
people  we  knew  were  really  married,  my  father  and 
mother,  Andre's  father  and  mother,  my  cousin 
Elodie.  Helene's  mother  was  dead,  so  her  parents 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  199 

did  n't  count.  And  I  argued  that  we  might  be  sure 
they  found  it  fun  to  be  really  married,  or  else  they 
would  n't  keep  it  up.  '  Oh,  well,  then,  I  suppose 
we  '11  have  to  be  really  married  too,'  she  consented. 
'But  it  seems  as  though  it  never  could  be  as 
nice  as  this.  If  only  you  weren't  going  away!' 
Whereupon  I  promised  again  to  come  back,  if  she  'd 
promise  to  wait  for  me,  and  never  love  anybody  else, 
and  never,  never,  never  allow  another  boy  to  kiss  her. 
'  Oh,  never,  never,  never,'  she  assured  me.  Then  her 
father  called  her,  and  they  drove  away." 

"  And  you  went  to  Paris  and  forgot  her.  Why 
were  you  false  to  your  engagement  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  had  allowed  another  boy  to  kiss  her. 
She  had  married  a  German  prince.  Besides,  I 
received  a  good  deal  of  discouragement  from  my 
family.  The  next  day,  in  the  train,  I  confided  our 
understanding  to  my  mother.  My  mother  seemed 
to  doubt  whether  her  father  would  like  me  as  a 
son-in-law.  I  was  certain  he  would  ;  he  was  awfully 
good-natured  ;  he  had  given  me  two  louis  as  a  parting 
tip.  '  But  do  you  think  he  '11  care  to  let  his  daughter 
marry  a  bourgeois  ?  '  my  mother  asked.  '  A  what  ?  ' 
cried  I.  *A  bourgeois/  said  my  mother.  *I  ain't 
a  bourgeois,'  I  retorted  indignantly.  '  What  are  you 
then  ? '  pursued  my  mother.  I  explained  that  my 
grandmother  had  been  a  countess,  and  my  uncle  was 
a  count ;  so  how  could  I  be  a  bourgeois  ?  '  But  what 
is  your  father  ?  '  my  mother  asked.  Oh,  niy  father 
was  'only  an  Englishman.'  But  that  didn't  make 
me  a  bourgeois  ?  (  Yes,  it  does,'  niy  mother  said. 
1  Just  because  my  father 's  English  ? '  '  Because  he 's  a 
commoner,  because  he  is  n't  noble.'  l  But  then  —  then 


200  GRAY  ROSES. 

what  did  you  go  and  rnarry  him  for  ? '  I  stammered. 
1  Where  would  you  have  been  if  I  had  n't  ? '  my 
mother  inquired.  That  puzzled  me  for  a  moment, 
but  then  I  answered,  '  Well,  if  you  'd  married  a 
Frenchman,  a  Count  or  a  Duke  or  something,  I 
should  n't  have  been  a  bourgeois ; '  and  my  mother 
confessed  that  that  was  true  enough.  '  I  don't  care 
if  I  am  a  bourgeois/  I  said  at  last.  '  When  I  'in  big 
I  'm  going  back  to  Saint-Graal ;  and  if  her  father 
won't  let  me  really  marry  her,  because  I  'm  a 
bourgeois,  then  we  '11  just  go  on  making  believe 
we  're  married.'  '• 

She  laughed.  "  And  now  you  are  big,  and  you  've 
come  back  to  Saint-Graal,  and  your  lady-love  is  at 
Granjolaye.  Why  don't  you  call  on  her  and  offer  to 
redeem  your  promise  ?  " 

"  Why  does  n't  she  send  for  me  —  bid  me  to  an 
audience  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  her  prophetic  soul  warns  her  how  you  'd 
disappoint  her." 

"  Do  you  think  she  M  be  disappointed  in  me  ?  " 
"  Are  n't  you  disappointed  in  yourself  ?  " 
"  Oh,  dear,  no  ;  I  think  I  'm  very  nice." 
u  /should  be  disappointed  in  myself,  if  I  were  a  man 
who  had  been  capable  of  such  an  innocent,  sweet  af- 
fection as  yours  for  Helene  de  la  Granjolaye,  and  had 
then  gone  and  soiled  myself  with  the  mud  of  what 
they  call  life."     She  spoke  earnestly ;   her  face  was 
grave  and  sad. 

He  was  surprised,  and  a  little  alarmed.  "Do 
you  mean  by  that  that  you  think  I  'in  a  bad  lot  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  You  said  the  other  day  —  yesterday  was  it  ?  —  that 
you  had  made  a  fool  of  yourself  on  various  occasions." 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  201 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  Did  the  process  not  generally  involve  making  a 
fool  of  a  woman  too  ?  " 

"  Reciprocity  ?     Perhaps." 

"  And  what  was  it  you  always  said  to  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I  did." 

"  You  told  them  you  loved  them  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  so." 

"  And  was  it  true  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  then  ! " 

"  Ah,  but  they  were  n't  deceived ;  they  never  be- 
lieved it.  That's  only  a  convention  of  the  game,  a 
necessary  formula,  like  the  'Dear'  at  the  beginning 
of  a  letter." 

"  You  have  '  lived  ; '  you  have  '  lived.'  You  ?d 
have  been  so  unique,  so  rare,  so  much  more  interest- 
ing, if  instead  of  going  and  'living'  like  other  men, 
you  had  remained  true  to  the  ideal  passion  of  your 
childhood." 

"I  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  into  the  world, 
and  not  into  a  fairytale,  you  see.  But  it's  a  per- 
fectly gratuitous  assumption  that  I  have  '  lived.' " 

"  Can  you  honestly  tell  me  you  have  n't  ?  "  she  asked, 
very  soberly,  with  something  like  eagerness  ;  her  pale 
face  intent. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact.  .  .  Oh,  the  worst  of  it  is 
...  I  can't  honestly  say  that  I  've  never  .  .  .  But 
then,  what  do  you  want  to  rake  up  such  matters  for  ? 
It 's  not  my  fault  if  I  've  accepted  the  traditions  of 
my  century.  Well,  anyhow,  you  see  I  can't  lie  to  you." 

"You  appear  to  find  it  difficult,"  she  assented, 
rising. 


202  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  infer  from  that  ?  " 

She  blew  her  whistle.  "  That  —  that  you  're  out  of 
training,"  she  said  lightly,  as  she  mounted  her 
horse. 

"  Oh,"  he  groaned,  "you're " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  You  beggar  language." 

She  laughed  and  rode  away. 

"There,  I've  spoiled  everything,"  Paul  said,  and 
went  home,  and  passed  a  sleepless  night. 


XI 


"  I  '11  bet  you  sixpence  she  won't  turn  up  to-day," 
he  said  to  his  friend  in  the  glass,  next  morning ; 
nevertheless  he  went  into  the  forest,  and  there  she 
was.  But  she  did  not  offer  to  dismount. 

"  Is  n't  there  another  inference  to  be  drawn  from 
my  inability  to  lie  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  smiled  on  him  from  her  saddle.  "  Oh,  perhaps 
there  are  a  hundred." 

"Don't  you  think  a  reasonable  inference  is  that  — 
I  love  you  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  You  know  I  love  you,"  he  persisted. 

"Oh,  the  conventions  of  the  game!  the  necessary 
formula,  like  '  Dear  '  at  the  beginning  of  a  letter  ! " 
she  cried. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Qui  m'aime  me  suive,"  she  said,  spurring  Bezigue 
into  a  rapid  trot. 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  203 


XII 

But  the  next  day  he  found  her  already  installed  in 
their  nook  among  the  trees. 

"  I  hate  people  who  doubt  my  word,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  now  you  hate  me  ?" 

"  I  love  you.     I  love  you." 

She  drew  away  a  little. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  be  afraid.  I  sha'n't  touch  you. 
Why  won't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Do  men  always  glare  savagely  like  that  at  women 
they  love  ?  " 

"  Why  won't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  you  known  me  ?  " 

"All  my  life.  A  fortnight  —  three  weeks.  But 
that's  a  lifetime." 

"'And  what  do  you  know  about  me  ?  " 

"  Everything.  I  know  that  you  're  adorable.  And 
I  adore  you." 

"Adorable  —  at  moments.  Do  you  know  whether 
I  am  —  married,  for  example  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  if  you  are,  I  should  like  to  kill  your 
husband.  Are  you  ?  Tell  me.  Put  me  out  of  sus- 
pense. Let  me  go  home  and  open  a  vein." 

"  Have  I  the  air  of  a  jeune  fille  ?  " 

"Thank  goodness,  no.  But  there  are  such  things 
as  widows." 

"  And  what  more  do  you  know  about  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  —  are  you  married  ?  " 

"  You  may  suppose  that  I  'm  a  widow." 

"  Thank  God  !  " 
.  She  laughed. 


204  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  Will  you  marry  ine  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  marriage  is  such  a  bore,"  she  reminded  him. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said.  "But  you  may  give  me  a 
cigarette." 

And  for  a  while  they  smoked  without  speaking. 

"  I  hope  at  any  rate  you  believe  me  now,"  he  said. 

"  Because  you  've  offered  to  make  the  crowning  sac- 
rifice ?  By  the  by,  what  is  my  number  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't,"  he  cried.  "  You  're  the  only  woman 
I  've  ever  cared  a  straw  for ;  and  I  care  so  much  for 
you  that  I'd  —  I'd  —  "  He  stammered,  seeking  for 
a  thing  to  say  he'd  do. 

"  You  'd  go  to  the  length  of  marrying  me.  Only 
fancy  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  may  laugh.     But  I  love  you." 

"Do  you  love  me  as  much  as  you  used  to  love 
Helene  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  as  much  as  it's  possible  for  a  man  to 
love  a  woman." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  " 

"No.     What?" 

"  If  she  were  to  send  for  you,  one  of  these  days,  I 
think  you  'd  forget  me  utterly.  Your  old  love  would 
come  back  at  sight  of  her.  They  say  she 's  very 
good-looking." 

"Nonsense." 

"  I  should  like  to  try  you." 

"I  should  n't  fear  the  trial." 

"  II  ne  faut  jamais  dire  a  la  fontaine,  je  ne  boirai 
pas  de  ton  eau." 

"  But  when  one's  thirst  is  for  wine  ?  " 

"  It  shows  that  there 's  some  relation  between  psy- 
chology and  geography,  after  all,"  she  said. 


CASTLES  NEAR   SPAIN.  205 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  influence  of  places.  It  is  here  that  you 
and  she  used  to  play  a  fugue  on  each  other's  names. 
The  spot  raises  ghosts.  Ghosts  of  your  old  emotions. 
And  I  'm  conveniently  at  hand." 

"  If  you  could  see  yourself,  you  'd  understand  that 
the  influence  of  places  is  superfluous.  If  you  could 
look  into  my  heart  you  'd  recognize  that  my  emotion 
is  scarcely  a  ghost." 

"There's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  see,"  she  said. 
"  I  should  very  much  like  to  look  into  your  garden  at 
Saint-Graal." 

"Would  you?"  he  cried  eagerly.  "When  will 
you  come  ?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like." 

"  Now.     At  once." 

"  No.     To-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  morning  ?  " 

"Yes.  You  can  await  me  at  your  park-gates  at 
eleven." 

"  Then  you  '11  lunch  with  me  ?  " 

"No.  .  .  .  Perhaps." 

"  You  're  an  angel  !  " 

And  he  trudged  home  on  the  air.  "If  a  woman 
will  listen  !  "  his  heart  sang.  "  If  a  woman  will  come 
to  see  your  garden !  " 


XIII. 

That  evening  a  servant  handed  him  a  letter. 
"  A  footman  has  brought  it  from  Granjolaye,  and  is 
waiting  for  an  answer." 


206  GRAY  ROSES. 

The  letter  ran  thus :  — 

"  MONSIEUR  :  —  I  am  directed  by  Her  Majesty  the  Queen 
Hel£ne  to  request  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  the  Cha- 
teau de  Granjolaye  to-morrow  at  eleven.  Her  Majesty  desires 
me  to  add  that  she  has  only  to-day  learned  of  your  presence 
in  the  country. 

"  Agreez,  Monsieur,  Passurance  de  mes  sentiments  distingues, 

"CTSSE.    DE    WOLFENBACH." 

"  Oh,  this  is  staggering,"  cried  Paul.  "  What  to 
do  ?  "  He  walked  backwards  and  forwards,  pondering 
his  reply.  "  I  believe  the  only  excuse  that  will  pass 
with  Koyalty  is  illness  or  death.  Shall  I  send  word 
that  I  died  suddenly  this  morning.  Ah,  well,  here 
goes  for  a  thumping  lie." 

And  he  wrote :  — 

"  MADAME,  —  I  am  unspeakably  honored  by  Her  Majesty's 
command,  and  in  despair  that  the  state  of  my  health  makes  it 
impossible  for  me  to  obey  it.  I  am  confined  to  my  bed  by  a 
severe  attack  of  bronchitis.  Pray  express  to  Her  Majesty  my 
most  respectful  thanks  as  well  as  my  profound  regret.  I  shall 
hope  to  be  able  to  leave  my  room  at  the  week's  end,  when,  if 
Her  Majesty  can  be  prevailed  upon  again  to  accord  me  an 
audience,  I  shall  be  infinitely  grateful." 

"  There  !  "  he  muttered.  "  I  have  perjured  my  soul 
for  you,  and  made  myself  appear  ridiculous  into  the 
bargain.  Bronchitis!  But  —  a  demain!  Good  — 
good  Lord !  if  she  should  n't  come  ?  " 


XIV 

She  came,  followed  by  a  groom.  She  greeted  Paul 
with  a  smile  that  made  his  heart  leap  with  a  wild 
hope.  Her  groom  led  Bezigue  away  to  the  stables. 


CASTLES  NEAR  SPAIN.  207 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Paul. 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  For  everything.     For  coming.     For  that  smile." 

"  Oh." 

They  walked  about  the  garden.  "It  is  lovely. 
The  prettiest  garden  of  the  neighborhood,"  she  said. 
"  Show  ine  where  the  irises  grow,  by  the  pond."  And 
when  they  had  arrived  there,  "They  do  look  like 
princesses,  don't  they  ?  Your  little  friend  had  some 
perceptions.  Show  me  where  you  and  she  used  to  sit 
down.  I  am  tired." 

He  led  her  into  a  corner  of  the  rosery.  She  sank 
upon  the  turf. 

"It  is  nice  here,"  she  said,  "and  quite  shut  in. 
One  would  never  know  there  was  a  house  so  near." 

She  had  taken  off  one  of  her  gloves.  Her  soft 
white  hand  lay  languidly  in  her  lap.  Suddenly  Paul 
seized  it,  and  kissed  it  —  furiously  —  again  and  again. 
She  yielded  it.  It  was  sweet  to  smell,  and  warm. 
"  My  God,  how  I  love  you,  how  I  love  you ! "  he 
murmured. 

When  he  looked  up  she  was  smiling.  "Oh,  you 
are  radiant !  You  are  divine ! "  he  cried.  And  then 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  What  is  it  ?  What  is 
it?  You  are  unhappy?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  But  to  think  —  to  think  that 
after  all  these  years  of  misery,  of  heartbreak,  it  should 
end  like  this,  here." 

"  Here  ?  "  he  questioned. 

"  I  am  glad  your  bronchitis  is  better,  but  you  can 
invent  the  most  awful  fibs,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her,  while  the  universe  whirled  round 
him. 


208  GRAY  ROSES. 

"  Helene ! " 
"Paul!" 


XV 

Her  divorce  did  n't  carry  with  it  the  right  to  marry 
again.  But  she  said,  "  We  can  go  on  making  believe 
we  're  married.  Things  one  does  in  play  are  always 
so  much  nicer  than  real  things."  And  when  he  spoke 
of  the  "  world,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  nothing  to  fear 
or  to  hope  from  the  world.  It  has  done  its  worst  by 
me  already." 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  house  for  luncheon, 
Paul  looked  into  her  face,  and  said,  "  I  can't  believe 
my  eyes,  you  know." 

She  smiled  and  took  his  arm.  "  J'  t'aime  tant," 
she  whispered. 

"  And  now  I  can't  believe  my  ears  !  " 

And  this  would  appear  to  be  the  end,  but  I  suppose 
it  can't  be,  for  everybody  says  nowadays  that  nothing 
ever  ends  happily  here  below. 


THE   END. 


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A  couple  of  tales  by  Arthur  Machen,  presumably  an  Englishman,  published 
aesthetically  in  this  country  by  Roberts  Brothers.  They  are  horror  stones,  the 
horror  being  of  the  vague  psychologic  kind  and  dependent,  in  each  case,  upon  a  man 
of  science  who  tries  to  effect  a  change  in  individual  personality  by  an  operation  upon 
the  brain  cells.  The  implied  lesson  is  that  it  is  dangerous  and  unwise  to  seek  to 
probe  the  mystery  separating  mind  and  matter.  These  sketches  are  extremely  strong 
and  we  guarantee  the  "  shivers  "  to  anyone  who  reads  them.  —  Hartford  Courant. 

For  two  stories  of  the  most  marvelous  and  improbable  character,  yet  told  with 
wonderful  realism  and  naturalness,  the  palm  for  this  time  will  have  to  be  awarded  to 
Arthur  Machen,  for  "  The  Great  God  Pan  and  the  Inmost  Light,"  two  stories  just 
published  in  one  book.  They  are  fitting  companions  to  the  famous  stories  by  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  both  in  matter  and  style.  "The  Great  God  Pan"  is  founded  upon  an 
experiment  made  upon  a  girl  by  which  she  was  enabled  for  a  moment  to  see  the  god 
Pan,  but  with  most  disastrous  results,  the  most  wonderful  of  which  is  revealed  at  the 
end  of  the  story,  and  which  solution  the  reader  will  eagerly  seek  to  reach.  From  the 
first  mystery  or  tragedy  follow  in  rapid  succession.  "  The  Inmost  Light  "  is  equally 
as  remarkable  for  its  imaginative  power  and  perfect  air  of  probability.  Anything  in 
the  legitimate  line  of  psychology  utterly  pales  before  these  stories  of  such  plausibility. 
Boston  Howe  Journal. 

Precisely  who  the  great  god  Pan  of  Mr.  Machen's  first  tale  is,  we  did  not  quite 
discover  when  we  read  it,  or,  discovering,  we  have  forgotten  ;  but  our  impression  is 
that  under  the  idea  of  that  primitive  great  deity  he  impersonated,  or  meant  to  im- 
personate, the  evil  influences  that  attach  to  woman,  the  fatality  of  feminine  beauty, 
which,  like  the  countenance  of  the  great  god  Pan,  is  deadly  to  all  who  behold  it. 
His  heroine  is  a  beautiful  woman,  who  ruins  the  souls  and  bodies  of  those  over  whom 
she  casts  her  spells,  being  as  good  as  a  Suicide  Club,  if  we  may  say  so,  to  those  who 
love  her;  and  to  whom  she  is  Death.  Something  like  this,  if  not  this  exactly,  is,  \ve 
take  it,  the  interpretation  of  Mr.  Machen's  uncanny  parable,  which  is  too  obscure 
to  justify  itself  as  an  imaginative  creation  and  too  morbid  to  be  the  production  of  a 
healthy  mind.  The  kind  of  writing  which  it  illustrates  is  a  bad  one,  and  this  is  one 
of  the  worst  of  the  kind.  It  is  not  terrible,  but  horrible.  —  .ff.  H.  S.  in  Mail  and 
Express. 

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George  Egerton's  new  volume  entitled  "Discords,"  a  collection  of  short  stones, 
is  more  talked  about,  just  now,  than  any  other  fiction  of  the  day.  The  collection  is 
really  stories  for  story- writers.  They  are  precisely  the  quality  which  literary  folk  will 
wrangle  over.  Harold  Frederic  cables  from  London  to  the  "  New  York  Times  "  that 
the  book  is  making  a  profound  impression  there.  It  is  published  on  both  sides,  the 
Roberts  House  bringing  it  out  in  Boston.  George  Egerton,  like  George  Eliot  and 
George  Sand,  is  a  woman's  nom  de  plume.  The  extraordinary  frankness  with  which 
life  in  general  is  discussed  in  these  stories  not  unnaturally  arrests  attention.— 
Lilian  IY kiting. 

The  English  woman,  known  as  yet  only  by  the  name  of  George  Egerton,  who 
made  something  of  a  stir  in  the  world  by  a  volume  of  strong  stories  called  "  Keynotes," 
has  brought  out  a  new  book  under  the  rather  uncomfortable  title  of  "  Discords." 
These  stories  show  us  pessimism  run  wild ;  the  gloomy  things  that  can  happen  to  a 
human  being  are  so  dwelt  upon  as  to  leave  the  impression  that  in  the  author's  owr 
world  there  is  no  light.  The  relations  of  the  sexes  are  treated  of  in  bitter  irony,  which 
develops  into  actual  horror  as  the  pages  pass.  But  in  all  this  there  is  a  rugged 
grandeur  of  style,  a  keen  analysis  of  motive,  and  a  deepness  of  pathos  that  stamp 
George  Egerton  as  one  of  the  greatest  women  writers  of  the  day.  "Discords"  has 
been  called  a  volume  of  stories  ;  it  is  a  misnomer,  for  the  book  contains  merely  varying 
episodes  in  lives  of  men  and  women,  with  no  plot,  no  beginning  nor  ending.  —  Boston 
Traveller. 

This  is  a  new  volume  of  psychological  stories  from  the  pen  and  brains  of  George 
Egerton,  the  author  of  "  Keynotes."  Evidently  the  titles  of  the  author's  books  are 
selected  according  to  musical  principles.  The  first  story  in  the  book  is  "A  Psycho- 
logical Moment  at  Three  Periods."  It  is  all  strength  rather  than  sentiment.  The 
story  of  the  child,  of  the  girl,  and  of  the  woman  is  told,  and  told  by  one  to  whom  the 
mysteries  of  the  life  of  each  are  familiarly  known.  In  their  very  truth,  as  .he  writer 
has  so  subtly  analyzed  her  triple  characters,  they  sadden  one  to  think  that  such  things 
must  be  ;  yet  as  they  are  real,  they  are  bound  to  be  disclosed. by  somebody  and  in  clue 
time.  The  author  betrays  remarkable  penetrative  skill  and  perception,  and  dissects 
the  human  heart  with  a  power  from  whose  demonstration  the  sensitive  nature  maj 
instinctively  shrink  even  while  fascinated  with  the  narration  and  hypnotized  by  the 
treatment  exhibited.  —  Courier. 


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THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 

BY  GRANT  ALLEN. 

Keynotes  Series.    American  Copyright  Edition, 

16mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.OO. 


A  very  remarkable  story,  which  in  a  coarser  hand  than  its  refined  and 
gifted  author  could  never  have  been  effectively  told ;  for  such  a  hand  could 
not  have  sustained  the  purity  of  motive,  nor  have  portrayed  the  noble, 
irreproachable  character  of  Herminia  Barton.  —Boston  Home  Journal. 

"The  Woman  Who  Did"  is  a  remarkable  and  powerful  story.  It 
increases  our  respect  for  Mr.  Allen's  ability,  nor  do  we  feel  inclined  to  join 
in  throwing  stones  at  him  as  a  perverter  of  our  morals  and  our  social  insti- 
tutions. However  widely  we  may  differ  from  Mr.  Allen's  views  on  many 
important  questions,  we  are  bound  to  recognize  his  sincerity,  and  to  re- 
spect him  accordingly.  It  is  powerful  and  painful,  but  it  is  not  convincing. 
Herminia  Barton  is  a  woman  whose  nobleness  both  of  mind  and  of  life  we 
willingly  concede  ;  but  as  she  is  presented  to  us  by  Mr.  Allen,  there  is  un- 
mistakably a  flaw  in  her  intellect.  This  in  itself  does  not  detract  from 
the  reality  of  the  picture.  —  The  Speaker. 

In  the  work  itself,  every  page,  and  in  fact  every  line,  contains  outbursts 
of  intellectual  passion  that  places  this  author  among  the  giants  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  —  American  Newsman. 

Interesting,  and  at  times  intense  and  powerful.  —  Buffalo  Commercial. 
No  one  can  doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  author.  —  Woman's  Journal. 

The  story  is  a  strong  one,  very  strong,  and  teaches  a  lesson  that  no  one 
has  a  right  to  step  aside  from  the  moral  path  laid  out  by  religion,  the  law, 
and  society.  —  Boston  Times. 


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